
Class PS.„ax^ 



CoipghiN'' 14-£lSL 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



^A 




FIVE OREGON POETS 



1. Joaquin Miller. 2. James G. Clark. 3. Sam. L. Simpson. 

4. Edwin Markham. 5. Mrs, Ella Higginson. 



Oregon Literature 



JOHN B. HORNER, A.M., Litt. D. 

PROFESSOR OF HISTORY AND LATIN IN THE STATE AGRICULTURAL COLLEGE 
OF OREGON. 



Take the wings 
Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, 
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
Where rolls the Oregon . . . 

Bryant ; Thanatopsis. 



SECOND EDITION. 




PORTLAND, OREGON: 

THE J. K. GILL CO. 

1902 



llTHV'tieRAHV OF 

CU»S* Cl^XXr No. 
COPY B 



Copyright, 1902, by 
John B, Horner 



STATESMAN- JOB OFFICE PRINT 
SAI'EM, ORECiON 



INTRODUCTORY 

TO A FRIEND. 

"WJiaf is a hook? "Let affection, tell; 
A tongue to speak for those ivJio absent dwell, 
A language tittered to the eye 
Which envious distance woidd in vain deny. 

"Formed to convey like an electric chain 
The mystic Jlitslus, llic lightning of tlir brain, 
And thrill at once to its remotest link 
Ttie throb of passion by the printer's ink." 

John Burnett. 
Corvallis, July 7, 1899. 



PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION 

The men and women who made Oregon have already 
produced more genuine literature than did the Thirteen 
Colonies prior to the American Revolution. A remark- 
able people— the extract of the greatest nations— had 
possessed and planted the new land. They gave to the 
West their best thoughts ; and these thoughts more than 
any other influence shapf^d the lives, moulded the char- 
acter and determined the future of the present popula- 
tion. Therefore, these sentiments appeal to us, for they 
have been woven into our being. They are common 
property, bequeathed for the inspiration, enjoyment and 
edification of promising children and busy men and 
women. Hence it is patriotic and proper to familiarize 
ourselves with these sturdy Oregon thoughts, clothed 
.sometimes plainly, but yet in the best garb that plain 
men and M'omen could give them. 

However, beyond a crude and imperfect collection of 
excerpts from the writings of these people, published a 
few years ago by the authoi- of this volume, no attempt 
has been made to place before the public any* exhibit of 
their literature. The ready sale that attended the first 
edition, and the demand that apparently exists for a 
more pretentious work on the subject, occasioned the 
present publication. 

In this new edition the scope of work has been so in- 
creased as to include contributions from gifted writers 
who have more recently come into prominence on ac- 
count of use of choice English as it is spoken and 
written in the extreme "West. But be it said that the 
interesting task of selecting nuggets amidst a Klondyke 
of literary gems was somewhat ineumliered with the con- 
stant fear that in the delis'htful search many of the most 
valuable specimens may have been overlooked. Bearing 
this in mind, the author believes that enough have been 
gathered and are here presented to convince the reader 
that in the realm of literature, no state so young as 
Oregon has done better. J. B. H. 



Oregon Literature 



Long ago the scholars of the East passed the lamp of 
learning from Rome to England, and from England 
westward to Boston, the front door of America. From 
Boston the lamp lighted the way of the pioneer across 
mountain chains, mighty rivers, and far-reaching plains, 
till the radiance of its beams skirted the golden shores of 
onr majestic ocean. Then it was that the song of the 
poet and the wisdom of the sage for the first time blended 
in beautiful harmony with the songs of the robin, the 
lark, and the linnet of our valleys. These symphonies 
tioated along on zephyrs richly laden with aromas fresh 
from field and flower and forest, and were wafted heaven- 
ward with the prayers of the pioneer to mingle forever 
in adoration to the God of the Land and the Sea. This 
was the origin and the beginning of Oregon literature. 

INFLUENCE OF PIONEER LIFE. 

A fearless people among savages, the Oregon pioneers 
surmounted every obstacle, for they had graduated from 
the hard training school of the plains, and had suffered 
severe discipline known 'only to the early settler. Hon. 
George H. Williams, Attorney-General of President 
Grant's Cabinet, said: "When the pioneers arrived here 
they found a land of marvelous beauty. They found 
extended prairies, with luxuriant verdure. They foiind 
grand and gloomy forests, majestic rivers, and moun- 
tains covered with eternal snow ; but they found no 
fi^iends to greet them, no homes to go to, nothing but 
the genial heavens and the generous earth to give them 
consolation and hope. I cannot tell how they lived; 
nor how they supplied their numerous wants of family 



6 Oregon Literature 

life. All these things are mysteries to everyone, except- 
ing- to those who can give their solution from actual ex- 
perience. " But of this one thing be assured, under these 
trying circumstances, life with them grew to be real, 
earnest, and simple. They were fearless, yet God-fear- 
ing; no book save the Bible, Walker's Dictionary, 
Pilgrim's Progress, and a few others of like sort — solid 
books, solid thoughts, solid men— three elements that 
enter into substantial literature. 

Immigration steadily increased and the settlements 
gradually grew, so that all the woods and all the valleys 
became peopled. Only the bravest dared to undertake 
the long journey across the plains — for the plains, like 
the l)attlefield, develop character — and only the wisest 
and the strongest survived ; hence Oregon was early 
peopled with the strongest, the wisest and the bravest; 
the Romans of the new race. And while there may have 
been no Moses, no Caesar, no Cromwell among them, 
there was a generous distribution of men like Joe Meek, 
Gray the historian. United States Senator Nesmith, 
Governor Abernethy, General Joseph Lane, Governor 
Whiteaker, Doctor McLoughlin, and Applegate, Ihe sage 
of Yoncalla — men of warm heart, active brain, skillful 
hand, and sinewy arm. And the women were the 
daughters of the women who came in the Mayflower, and 
they were like unto them. They spun and they wove, 
and in any home might have been seen a Priscilla with 
her wheel and distaff as of old. And, although the 
legends of our Aldens and Priscillas remain as yet un- 
written and unsung, Oregon will some day raise up a 
Longfellow who will place these treasures among the 
classics of the age. 

INFLUENCE OF SCENERY. 

Critics tell us that literature is rather an image of 
the spiritual world than the physical— of the internal 
rather than the external — that mountains, lakes, and 
rivers are after all only its scenery and decorations, not 
its substance and essence. It is true that a man is not 



Influence of Scenery 7 

destined to be a great poet merely because he lives at 
the foot of a great mountain — a Hood, a Jefferson, or a 
Shasta ; nor being a poet, that he will write better verse 
than others because he lives where he can hear the thund- 
ering of a mighty waterfall. "Switzerland is all moun- 
tains; yet like the Andes, or the Himalayas, or the 
Mountains of the Moon in Africa, it has produced no 
extraordinary poet." But, while mountains, rivers, and 
valleys do not create genius, no one can deny that they 
aid in developing it. Emerson tells us that "the charm- 
ing landscape he saw one morning is indubitably made up 
of some twenty or thirty farms. Milier owns this field, 
Lock that, and Manning the woodland beyond, but none 
of them owns the landscape. There is a property in the 
horizon which no man has but he whose eye can integrate 
all the parts— that is the poet." The poet, therefore, is 
the only millionaire able to own a landscape. Yet no 
man or woman with poetic impulse can entirely escape 
or resist the inspiring influence of towering peak or 
sweeping river. AA^ith a state bounded on the north by 
the Columl)ia, abutted on the east by boundless prairies 
and magnificent vista of distant mountain chain, guarded 
on the south by the lofty Siskiyous, bathed on the west 
by the sunset seas; with a state dotted here and there 
with everlasting snow-tipped peaks, sentinels of the 
world, bound together with stretching mountain system, 
bosomed with delightful valleys, tesselated with charm- 
ing traceries and glacier-fed streams of crystal that 
water the violets, daisies, and the witcheries of the low- 
land—ours is not the scenery that makes gladiators and 
bandits, but is the refining, elevating scenery with mild 
and gentle environment that day by day has worked its 
impress through the eye and mind and soul of dwellers 
in Oregon, and produced a literary beginning already 
made noteworthy by Miller, Markham, Simpson, Hig- 
ginson, Balch and many others. That the sweet nature 
and rich landscapes about us have done much to stimulate 
and fructify our literature, and that it will continue to 
advance the literary art to a higher s'ate of perfection, 
is made certain by a study of the thoughts and themes 
with which existing creations are ramified and inter- 



8 Oregon Literature 

twined. It was the gentle flow of the Willamette that 
furnished Simpson with a theme that created one of the 
most delightful poems known to the language ; until he 
had stood on the banks antl heard the "lovely river softly 
calling to the sea" his mind must have remained without 
the inspiration necessary to produce the sweet lines of 
"Beautiful Willamette." Likewise in Higginson's 
' ' Four-Leaf Clover, ' ' written within sight of a meadow, 
in Baker's "Ode to a Wave," written on the ocean beach, 
and in Miller's "Sierras," written with the Cascades in 
the background— the complete reliance of the author 
upon nature, not only for inspii-ation, but often for 
theme or thought, is clearly discernable. 

INFLUENCE OF SONG. 

Our pioneer fathers and mothers were a busy, active 
people, but they had their times for rest ; and during 
these restful hours they found nnich solace in song. The 
violin was their only piano. They listened to its melody 
and they danced to its notes; and those who did not 
think it wicked, sang with it. They did not all have time 
to read books, and curious as it may seem in this day of 
libraries, colleges and public schools, some of them did 
not even know how ; but all could sing, and they found 
time for this recreation; and they sang more in their 
homes and in their fields then than they do now. If at 
no other time, they sang on their way to and from labor; 
and every home became a sort of musical conservatory. 
They had traveled far, and reached their earthly 
Canaan; and now they were singing of the Canaan be- 
yond, drinking in the noetry that flowed like the milk and 
honey of the land that they had found. 

And it is probable that the men and the women and 
the children who sing the good songs, thrilling the world 
with their melodies, exert as great an influence in touch- 
ing the popular heart and in inspiring the nobler senti- 
ments of humanity as do the men and women who write 
the good songs; and the men and women who write the 
good S(mgs do as much to develop the nation as they who 
write the good laws. The singtn-s, therefore, are not far 




OREGON STATE SCHOOL SUPERINTENDENTS 



Syl. C. Simpson. Feb,, 1 873, to Sept., 874 
L L Rowland. Sept.. 1874, to Sept., 1878 
l' J Powell, Sept., 1 878, to Sept., 1 882 



E B. McElroy, Sept., 1882. to Jan .1895 
G. M. Irwin, Jan., 1 895, to Jan., 1 899 
J. H. Ackerman, Jan., 1899. 



Influfvcr of Snncf 9 

removed from the good laws of the country. In the days 
when there were no newspapers, nor magazines, and books 
were few, the Davids, the Homers, and the Alfreds went 
about singing patriotic odes to the people; and thus, 
through the art of song, patriotism became a part of the 
national life. This, however, was not the only influence 
wielded by the songs then as well as in later days. As' 
in the various ages of world history, minstrelsy and the 
composition and singing of ballads became an influence 
for revival or stimulation of literature ; so in our early 
pioneer days the unskilled voices of set:ler-folk in field 
or in home, mingling with the songs of the birds in 
neighboring wood, inspired in the mind thoughts that in 
the succeeding generation developed into a certain purity 
and sweetness, out of which a copious and lofty litera- 
ture is grown. 

In the days of the pioneer, every community had its 
singing school. In charge there was a professional sing- 
ing master, or a leader selected from the membership. 
For music they were restricted to old melodies found in 
"Carmina Sacra," the "New Lute of Zion," the "Har- 
mony," the "Triumph," the "Key Note," "Golden 
Wreath," the "Revivalist," and kindred collections long 
since out of print. Some of the best books were written 
in the old square-note system so the peopie could slowly 
spell their way through the music. Familiar among those 
airs were, "The Land of Canaan," "I Belong to the 
Band, Hallelujah," "Mary to the Saviour's Tomb," 
"Jesus Lover of My Soul," "The World Will Be on 
Fire," "I Want to Be an Angel," "There Is a Happy 
Land," "Happy Day," "Work for the Night is Com- 
ing," and scores of others, among which were the na- 
tional odes. Such gatherings— such music ! The singers 
always looked forward to the day when they could join 
in song. Sometimes the leader stumbled a little, for the 
singing was more spirited than classical ; but the songs 
were few, and the singers learned them well. 

Of the effect of these gatherings upon the subsequent 
life of Oregon there is no doubt. The songs . and the 
elevating associations mellowed men's hearts and set 
their thoughts to flowing in channels where poetry, music 



10 Oregon Literature 

and the softer, sweeter side of human nature are ever 
present. Deep and wide they hiid the foundation upon 
which the future thought and liierature of tlie commun- 
ity was to he builded. 

THE CAMP MEETING. 

When Bryant wi'ote "The groves were God's first 
tempk^s, " he must have been thinking of the western 
ea]iip-meeting grounds, where men heard some of the 
richest eh^quence that has never been recorded in book 
or magazine. At a time when the camp meeting could 
not conflict with sowing and reaping, i>eople met and 
miijgled, and their hearts were mellowed by the divine 
message as they heard it preached from revelation and 
read it in the volume of nature. The preachers who in- 
terpreted these lessons were Fowler, Hines, Hill, Keu- 
noyer, Conner, Wilbur, Driver, EUedge, and others whose 
names hav(^ been recorded in the hearts of their fellow 
men. 

When a man fails to solve a difficult problem with his 
head he instinctively undertakes to solve it with his 
heart. Accordingly this was a season of hearl; culture 
especially helpful to these who had wrestled with the 
difficulties incident to settlement in a new country — 
such difficulties as no one but the immigrant, the pioneer, 
or the soldier, can fully understand. It was the great 
social and religious meeting plac(^ of the people, and it 
grew to be a part of pioneer life. But, in course of 
time, when the first settlers began to pass from the stage 
of action, open-air speaking and singing became less 
common, the camp meeting gradually came to be a place 
hallowed only in memory and in religious literature. 

The ancients who learned to worship the trees told us 
that eloquence is of the gods and the groves. With 
magnificent groves along our templed bids, it might seem 
that it would not have been difficult for the people to 
become druids. But ^he idea is not common to our soil, 
so we bavc cullivatcd sentiments and developed themes 
that are destined to flower out into a literature bearing 
the impress of the old-time camp-meeting eloquence. 



Influence of ilie Pulpit 11 

PULPITEERS. 

j\Iueh wisdom and eloquence were voiced and penned 
by the pioneer pulpiteers, among whom were: Doctor 
Marcus Whitman, Father Eels, Wilson Blain, James H. 
Wilbur, Jason Lee, S. G. Irvine, Josiah L. Parrish, A. L. 
Lindsley, William Roberts, P. S. Knight, Thomas H. 
Pearne, Alvin F. Waller, Thomas Kendall, James 
Worth, George H. Atkinson, Gustavus rlines, Harvey K. 
Hines, Edward R. Geary, Bishop B. Wistar Morris, and 
Doctor T. L. Eliot; besides the visiting Bishops— Simp- 
son, Glosbrenner, Scott, Marvin, Weaver, Castle, Bow- 
man, Poster, and other great lights who always brought 
new tidings and gave fresh inspiration to pulpit oratory, 
in the science of sciences, the ology of ologies — theology. 
These intiuences have quickened the pulpit and given 
fresh inspiration to every form of literary effort, from 
the humblest essay in the public school to the crowning 
efforts in i)ai'liam(nitary, forensic, and sacred oratory. 

THE OLD-FASHIONED PREACHER. 

The old-fashioned preacher, who preaclnMl in church, 
school house, or home,wielded a powerful influence upon 
religious thought in the earlier days. One of these it 
may not be out of place to mention. 

Some one, somewhere, some day, it is not known v/hen, 
guided by a certain instinct which determines worth and 
discriminates between men, will look above and beyond 
schools and art and rich attire to find one of Nature's 
noblemen ; and then will sit down and write the life of 
Joab Powell, whose utterances were like those of Henry 
Clay — spoken for the occasion and not for the future. 
There are many who, on account of their individuality, 
rise so far above conventionalism that we forget their 
titles and think of them solely as men. We say Socrates, 
Virgil, Ossian, Milton, Demosthenes ; for no title can add 
lustre to their names. How refreshing would sound Rev. 
Peter, Dr. James, or Bishop John, of sacred lore. So in 
our land there have been those in whom we at once 
recognize and revere the man and not the title : as Roger 



12 Orffjon Liifrafurr 

Williams, Lorenzo Dow, and Peter Cartwright, and, in 
the farther West, Father Newton and Joab Powell. 
These nntitled messengers carried the gospel of higher 
civilization when the traclv of the wagon and the iron 
horse was but the dim tjail of the Indian and the 
pioneer; and it now behooves the rising generation to 
repeat and record their words of wisdom ere all they 
have said will l)e effaced except some trite tale unworthy 
of a listening ear. 

THE BIBLE. 

In each wagon of the long immigrant trains that came 
into our valleys might have been found a certain book- 
plain .book — precious book — book of books— the Bible; 
and the most indifferent sometimes perused its pages. 
In England, John Bunyati read the Bible until his lan- 
guage grew to be the language of the Bible, as may be 
seen in the "Pilgrim's Progress," an allegory in which 
human thought arose on angelic wings and took on the 
robes of' Holy Writ. In Oregon a large majority of the 
people have been Bible-readers; and the ratio has been 
steadily increasing; hence the Bible element or Saxon 
element bids fair to grow in prominence with our people. 
Furthermore, the experience and the environments of our 
people tend to produce a growing demand for a language 
of sentiment and sense— the most practical vehicle of 
expi-ession employed in talking from the heart to a point. 

CLIMATIC INFLUENCE UPON LITERATURE. 

It is an indisputable fact that climate exerts an in- 
tiuenee upon literature, and there are these who believe 
they have already noticed marked indications of climatic 
influence upon what has been written in the various parts 
of the state; and they say that this difference will con- 
tinue to increase so that it will be more noticeable as the 
ye.'irs go by. 

It is known tliat in an extreme temperature the best 
intelh^ctual results are seldom attained. Human energies 
are exhausted in the effort to sustain life; hence M'e do 



CVunatic In/Jaoicc 13 

not expect great hooks and intellectnal trinniphs to come 
from those who received their growth in the torrid or 
in the frigid zones. It also has been observed that 
climates in which it is too easy to obtain a livelihood 
impede intellectual progress. It has, therefore, been be- 
lieved that no stirring thought will come from the Fili- 
pinos or other people living near the equator. In these 
lands, they who have palaces leave them to live in groves, 
and enjoy gondolas, chariots, theaters, fashionable clubs, 
popular resor's, the racing circle, and the bull-fight 
ring; everything succumbs to pleasure, until pleasure 
becomes licentious— an influence which is never truly 
literary. Accordingly, we look to the more temperate 
climes for advanced literary achievement and human 
endeavor in its glory. Therefore, men have come to be- 
lieve that Oregon, which is centrally located as to mild- 
ness of temperature, will produce a superior literature; 
and it has been urged that since the state has two distinct 
climates, there will also be two distinct literatures. 

Of the Saxon motherland Taine said, "Thick clouds 
hover above, being fed by thick exhalations. They lazily 
turn their flanks, grow darlv, and descend in showers; 
oh, how easily." Is not that Western Oregon? The 
Saxons of Europe have left their climate to find a similar 
climate here. The West Oregonian should, therefore, 
possess many of the qualities which characterized the 
typical Saxon of old. This is no idle boast. The ocean 
side of Oregon is a foggy region with its somber scenes 
and low-hanging clouds, where moss is not uncommon, 
and the gray mists creep under a stratum of motionless 
vapor. While Eastern Oregon is a land of sunshine and 
lofty skies, where great gleaming bars of steel and silver 
and gold rest upon the mountain rim until, perchance 
they "are disturbed by 1 he bolts of Jove that come boom- 
ing over the heights into the valley below. The elements 
are suddenly quickened ; and the people have, instead of 
the genth^ shower that floats in on the heavy atmos]ihere 
of the sea coast, the drenching rain of the highland clouds 
that were torn loose by the thunder bolt and theirs waters 
spilled upon parching grain and thirsting herds; in the 
one the air is washed— purified by the gentle drizzling 



14 Oregon Literature 

rain, in the other the air is drenched hy the swift sweep- 
ing thunder showers. Observe the effect of these climates 
upon the inlia])itants. Notice the growin^i: difference be- 
tween the sk)w, deliberate but measured tread of the one 
class and the f|uick s^ep of the other, as well as the habits 
of -thought of the two peoples. 

Then, there will always be as marked contrast between 
the literature of Eastern Oregon and Western Oregon 
as if the two localities were two states in different parts 
of the Union. Think of the humid atmosphere washed 
and kept pure by the AVelifoot rain— did rain, does rain, 
will rain; gentle rain; rain that comes like a huge joke, 
ever welcome, ever abundant, and never failing rain ; 
rain that shortens the days, lengthens the nights-, and 
houses the people, domesticating men who ordinarily 
grow wild and rough in the exhilarating sunshine of 
the higher altitudes. A heavy, languid, drowsy atmos- 
phere; hence slow thinkers; slow to plan, slow to decide, 
slow to act — a people not uidike the Raxons of old, with 
senses not so keen and quick, but with a will ever vigor- 
ous. There will be a certain earnestness, severe man- 
ners, grave inclinations, and manly dignity. The 'West- 
ern Oregonian will be domesticated per force of circum- 
stances; an indoor plant, a reader of books, a student 
of indoor ethics. The Eastern Oregonian will be an out- 
door plant; sallying out from beneath his roof to bathe 
in the summer sunshine and accustom himself to the 
severe atmosphere and draw his inspirations from the 
bold landscapes of the uplands— a brave man, a strenu- 
ous man, a cultured man — a man of the times. 

Inasmuch as the climate of Western Oregon is some- 
what tempei'ed by the Japan Current, the people who 
would be cut down untimely in a rugged climate like 
that of Eastern Oregon naturally seek to prolong life by 
taking advantage of the milder climate of Western 
Oregon. There will always be those who, upon finding 
the winter ioo severe in Eastern Oreg-on, will spend that 
season in Western Oregon. Besides, there will be a 
tendency to seek this region by those afflicted with pul- 
monary troubles. 

In Western Oregon there is an abundance of fruit; 




PIONEER COLLEGE AND UNIVERSITY PRESIDENTS 



1. B. L. Arnold, Oregon Agricultural College, 1872 to 1891 : author of an unpublished text-book 
on Mental Philosophy. 

2. Sidney H. Marsh, Pacific University, 1854 to 1879. 

3. T. F. Campbell, Christian College, 1869 to 1882; author of "Know Thyself" and "Genesis of 
Power." 

4. Thomas M. Gatch, Willamette University, 1860 to 1865, 1870 to 1879; Oregon Agiicultural 
College, 1897. 

5. John W. Johnson, University of Oregon, 1876 to 1893 



College Influence 15 

but the supply of liiiic in the water, vegetables, milk, 
breadstiitfs and other classes of diet that neutralize the 
acid of the fruit is not so plentiful as in the alkaline 
rearions east of the Cascades. Since there is a certain 
lack of the principal bone-producing material, there is a 
noticeable tendency to premature decay of the teeth, 
which in a way will have an effect upon those physical 
functions which give tone to the system. While the 
acidity is less in Eastern Oregon, +here is more bone- 
making material; hence the tendency to develop larger 
bones— larger frame work for the body. Human off- 
spring brought up amidst the elements that prevail in 
Eastern Oregon will, therefore, be biafger; consequently 
more rugged. The people of Western Oregon will be 
constructed on a frame work of smaller bones ; they will, 
therefore, possess a more delicate nature — fine physique 
true enough, but they will not be so strong and sturdy, 
hence more sensitive to warm'h and cold and, on this 
account, more sensitive to feeling and sentiment. There 
promises to be a whole-souled air in the literature of 
Eastern Oregon, somewhat after the Dryden tvpe, while 
conservatism, finish, and fine feeling of the Pope s*^yle 
will characterize the literature of Western Oregon. 

COLLEGE INFLUENCE. 

College influence must not be overlooked in the study 
of literature. We are told that our national literature 
thrived only as the colleges of the Nation prospered. 
The best literature of our country is but the confluence 
of streams flowing ou^ of the fountain heads. Harvard, 
Yale, William and Mary, and other great colleges of the 
Nation. So in our state there was Columbia College, 
which graduallv develorted into the TTniversitv of Oresron, 
at Eugene, whence came Joaquin ]\Tiller. He may have 
written in the Sierras and sung: of their grandeur-, he 
may have bowed to the eastern muse; his harn strings 
may have vibrated with the songs of vine-clad Italy, yet 
he is an Oregon poet— simply a child away from home. 

Pacific University, like Jupiter, from whom sprung 
Minerva full grown and complete, sent out as her first 



16 Oregon Literature 

graduate Harvey W. Scott, who has a national reputation 
as a journalist and critic. 

History tells us that Washington Irving was the first 
ambassador from the new world to the old — the tirst 
American writer to obtain recognition on the Continent. 
So Bethel College, now known only in history, was the 
first institution in our state to receive recognition from 
a great university in the mother country — Dr. L. L. 
Rowland, Fellow of the Royal Society of England, being 
a graduate of that institution. 

Philomath College, in 1869, sent out Rev. Louis A. 
Banks, D. D., who has written a score of volumes, oc- 
cupied some of the wealthiest pulpits in the Methodist 
Episcopal Church, and his sermons have l)een read 
probably by more people than the sermons of any other 
writer, except those of Doctor Talma ge. for some years 
past. 

Willamette University gave to the literary world the 
la^e Samuel L. Simpson, author of "The Beautiful 
Willamette"; and all of (mr other colleges have con- 
trilnited to the fast-flowing stream of our state literature. 

THE CHAUTAUQUA. 

Along with these must not be forgotten the influence 
of the larges^^ Oregon literary institution — The Willam- 
ette Valley Chautauqua of Gladstone Park. This college 
of liberal arts has already inu^orted more light from the 
East, developed more talent in the AVest, and given in- 
struction to a greater number of students in the things 
with which busy, active men have to think and to do than 
has any other influence in the state ; second only to this 
institution is the Chautauqua at Ashland. 

INFLUENCE OF NEWSPAPERS AND MAGAZINES. 

The pioneers well remember the time when the news- 
paper came in the semi-annual mail and was eagerly 
read. The old folks at home, then the war and other 
topics of importance were subjects anxiously sought in 
newspapers; while Harpers', Leslie's, and the more ex- 




PIONEER JOURNALISTS OF OREGON 



1. Asahel Bush, 1851, founder of the Statesman. Salem, first issue March 
21. 1851. 

2. Col. W. G. T'Vault, 1 843, .'first editor of the Spectator, issued at Oregon 
City, February 5, 1846, the first paper west of the Missouri river. 

5, Thomas J. Dryer, 1850, founder of the Oregonian, first issue December 
?, 1 650, on the corner of Front and Morrison streets. 

i- Delazon Smith, 1852, founder of the Democrat, Albany; 1855; one of 
^e first United States Senators from OreRon. 

5. ihornton T. McElroy, 1851, printer on the Spectator. Oregon City, and 
f®mi4er of the Columbian, first newspaper north of the Columbia river, issued 5^t 
Oiythpia, September 1, 1852. 



Influence of the Press 17 

pensive t)ublicatioiis found tlieir way in^o many of the 
more prosperous homes. Thus the taste for literature 
and the news was awakened so that in a short time the 
newspapers began to multiply ; the monthlies became 
weeklies; the weeklies, semi-weeklies and dailies. The 
thirst for news and information on current (juestions 
will ever serve as a tonic to create a desire for abundant 
reading, hence will aid in producing a better market for 
literature. 

It is true we have not published many magazines; but 
it was not for want of talent or demand. Our people 
have simply not had the time to give proper attention 
to the matter. But many will remember the West Shore, 
whose pen was dipped in poetry and whose brush not 
infrequently gave us the delicate tinting of the rainbow. 
It was a welcome visitor to our homes, and it was eagerly 
sought by thousands of readers throughout the Nation. 
Nor would we forget The Native Son Magazine, which 
had an eventful existence of two years, and was a beau- 
tifully illustrated monthly, edited by Mr. Fred H. 
Saylor; also the Oregon Teachers Monthly, published by 
Prof. Charles H. Jones, at the Capital City. 

But no history of Oregon literature would be complete 
without proper credit being given to the work that is 
being done by The Pacific Monthly. This magazine, "of 
which all Oregonians should be proud," is giving a dis- 
tinctive form and a character to Oregon literature. It 
is doing what only a magazine can do, and it is doing it 
well. The Pacific Monthly began Math a high standard 
and its publishers have s+eadily adhered to this policy. 
As a consequence the magazine is a credit to Oregon 
literature and to the literature of the West. It is char- 
acterized by an evenness of tone and a literary atmos- 
phere that far older publications might well envy, and 
at the same time its contents are sufficiently varied to 
appeal to the popular taste. The magazine was estab- 
lished in 1898 by William Bittle Wells, who is its present 
editor. 

Among the abler journalists whose pens have been 
influential in shaping the future of Oregon are : Harvey 
W, Scott, the critic and editor of the Oregonian; L, 



18 Oregon Literature 

Samuels, of the West Shors; Mrs. A. S. Duniway, cham- 
pion of women's rights ; the trenchant Thomas B. ]\Ierry ; 
as also James O'Meara, A. Bush, W. L. Adams, S. A. 
Clarke, W. H. Odell, A. Noltner, and others, whose 
number has increased with the tide of immigration and 
the progress of our country. 

PROGRESS AND LITERATURE. 

But unrest develops character; quiet, talent; and 
talent, literature. As grand as were their deeds, and 
memorable their lives, the pioneer days are over. Homes 
have been built and farms improved. The Indians have 
been civilized ; churches and school houses erected. 
We have passed through the home-seeking period and 
entered into the home and -social development era, an 
era when men — thinking men — have an opportunity to 
sit down in the quiet of their homes and think. There 
is scarcely a town or hamlet in tlu^ state now that is not 
the seat of some publishing establishment, preaching the 
gospel of modern culture and giving every evidence of 
large literary progress. 

MERIT OF OREGON LITERATURE. 

In passing judgment upon the merits of authors we 
take into account the quality as well as the quantity of 
what they have written. Have they suited the thought 
to the action, the action to the thought ? Have they 
slvillfully adapted the expression to the theme? Have 
they written in a style that would edify and delight an 
American reading circle'? These questions must be care- 
fully considered. In the days of the Colonists, trans- 
mission of thought was the sole function of literature ; 
and this is quite all ^^hat could have been expected of 
a people in an age of literary poverty, when language 
w^as regarded merely as a clumsy vehicle for the convey- 
ance of heavy thought. A century of good schools has 
taught our people the art of expression, and men and 
women have learned to decorate prose with the ornaments 
of poetry. 



3Ierit of Oregon Litcroture 19 

In the pioneer age of Oregon, manner as well as matter 
enters as an important element in style. It is not so 
much Avhat you say as how you say it. Merit of style 
is a quality found in all the world's unwasting; treasures- 
of literature. In respect to style or quality of literary 
productions, the writers of Oregon in half a century have 
outclassed; the writers of all the Thirteen Colonies of 
America during the first one hundred and fifty years. 
From 1607, the founding of Jamestown, when John 
Smith opened the stream of American literature by de- 
scribing the country and the people he found in the new 
world, to 1765, when the people were aroused to resist- 
ance of the foreign authority of Great Britain, there was 
not written nor pul)lished in all the colonies a sot of 
orations that will compare with the twenty-one delivered 
and published by C4eorge H. Williams, of Portland, 
Oregon, in 1890 ; nor had they a J. AV. Nesmith, a Delazon 
Smith, or a Col. B. D. Baker. And the best things 
written by Anne Bradstreet and Michael Wigglesworth, 
the two greatest poets of the Colonial period, would be 
now regarded as mere doggerel alongside of the poems of 
Samuel Simpson, Joaquin Miller, Edwin ]\Iarkham, or 
Ella Higginson. Then the historical descriptions by John 
Smith, Governors Bradford and Winthron. which were 
the best of the age, could in no wise be compared favor- 
ably with Gray's or Hines's history of Oregon, or Mrs 
Victor's "Rivers of the West," or Mrs. Dye's "Mc- 
Loughlin and Old Oregon." either for beauty or literary 
finish. There was also that literary curiosity. Cotton 
Mather, who adopted the novel method of securing a 
library by writing more than four hundred volumes 
himself. But among all these he did not present to the 
literary world as readable a book as L. A. Banks's 
"Honeycombs of Life," or Dr. T. L. Eliot's "Visit to 
the Holy Land." Jonathan Edwards's "Inquiry Into 
the Freedom of the Will," written in 1754, was regarded 
as authority in metaphysics, but it never was classed as 
literature. Then it may be remarked that they produced 
no songs or other music of note, while our Francis, the 
DeMoss family. Heritage, Parvin, Yoder, and scores of 
others have published songs, enjoyed and sung from 



20 Oregon Literature 

shore to shore, from sea to sea. They liad no c^reat hiw- 
yers to st.ren<ithen their constitution by the wise interpre- 
tation of their laws, such as we have had in Matthew P. 
Deady, W. Lair Hill, Lafayette Lane, W. P. Lord, and 
others who have graced the supreme bench of Oregon. 
Modern journalism was then unknown ; and a Homer 
Davenport, with an annual income of $18,000 — the high- 
est salary ever paid a cartoonist— was not to be found 
among them. 

SOME POPULAR MUSIC PUBLISHED IN OREGON. 
VOCAL. 

Addie Ray Parvin 

Adieu, Adieu, Our Deam of Life Shindler 

A Hot Time in the Old Town Toniuht Joe llayden 

An Old Man's Reverie Eastman 

A Song That Never Was Sunir Eastman 

At the Threshold Smith 

At the Gateway Parvin 

At the Making of the Hay Falenius 

Baby Eyes Bray 

Blue Ribbon War Song Francis 

College Train (The) Parvin 

Constancy Cooh 

Cradle Rest Lisher 

Drifted Leaf (The) Cook 

Donald, Return to Me Emerson 

Drifting Apart Finck 

End Crowns the Work (The) Parvin 

Folding Awav the Baby's Clothes Bray 

Fond Idol of My Henrt Bates 

Plight of the Birds Hodge 

Hear Dem Ebening Bells Bray 

How Can I Go Without a Last Good-By .' Mathiot 

I Am a Tramp Mathiot 

I Heard an Angel Voice Last Night Bray 

I's Gwine Home Tonight Parvin 

Just One Girl Keating 

Just as the Sun AVent Down Keating 

I Have Left You Though I Love You Eastman 



Popular Music Published in Oregon 2i 

Kittie McGee Cook 

Life is Short, Art is Long Parvin 

Long White Seam (The) Denny 

Lost in the Deep, Deep Sea Bray 

Message Came ()ver the Wires Today (A) Bray 

Nevermore Br<iy 

One Smile For Me, Sweetheart Bray 

On Life's River Parviii 

Open Wide the Gates of ILaven Bray 

Over the River Thompson 

Our Lips Have Kissed Their Last Ccod-liy Gilbert 

Our Emblem Flower Eastman 

Put on Your Army Shoes Sawyer 

Speak to iMother Kindly Bray 

Spot and I Bray 

Sweet, Thoughts, Bright i'lioughts Bray 

Sister and I Van Gordcr 

Shadows Coolidge 

Surely Apart en Life's Great Sea Gilbert 

Slumber Song Seals 

Sweet Oregon DeMoss 

Sweet Flower ( f Gclden Hue Finch 

The Message of the Flow^ers Beats 

Stepping Upward Parvin 

Think of Me Bray 

Tomorrow Cook 

True Hearlo .Vro Beating Parvin 

There's Mischief in Their Eyes Bray 

Voyaging Parvin. 

Water Mill ( Tlic) Cook 

When She's Singing Bray 

Why the Cows Came Late Cook 

Waiting by the Old Hearthsten- Van Gordcr 

You'll Soon Forget Your Old Love Van Gordcr 

INSTRUMENTAL. 

Ah ! Waltz (The) Gilbert 

All the Rage Waltz Scdlak 

Argonaut Sehottisehe Sloan 

Aschroft Walt/ Cross 

Belle of Orci-on Pinck 



22 Oregon Literaiure 

Belle of Portland Finch 

Ben Bolt Transcription Finck 

Concerto (Violin) Kutkyn Turneij 

Creole Dance M. Goodnough 

Chinook Wind Whispers Waltz MatJiiot 

Camas Rose Redowa Finck 

Columbia March Cook 

Chapel in the Sierras (The) Cook 

Deck Promenade Engleman 

Dreams of Sunnner Finck 

First Sti:eet 211, First Street Polka Parrot 

Frost Sparkles Coolidge 

Fond Hopes Desire Finck 

Garden City Schottische Rosenberg 

Grand Triumphal March Rosenberg 

Grammar School March Finck 

Heartsease Waltz Finck 

Hazel Kirke Schottische Bray 

In the Woods Coolidge 

In the Gloaming Coolidge 

Halcyon Waltzes At Weber 

I Am Dreaming of the Past Finck 

Jolly Coons Schottische Bray 

Love in the Mist Waltz Finck 

Lady Slipper Waltz Finck 

Las Ondellas (Little Waves) Waltz Cross 

Mathilda Polka Thibeau 

McKinley March Yoder 

Murmurs Prom the Pacilic Cook 

Mount Hood in the Distance Moelling 

Mountain Lilly Galop Finck 

Marion Square Polka Martine 

Mount Hood March Horner 

New Lancers Quadrille Finck 

Now and Forever Waltz Bray 

One Smile For Me, Sweetlieart — Transcription. .7^//(cA; 

Our Girls Schottische Finck 

Oh, It's So Easy Schottische Bray 

Pioneers' Grand March Maihiot 

Pleasant Hours Waltzes Josef Mueller 

Portland Light Battery March Parrott 



Future Literature 23 

Portland IMazurka Sedlak 

Railroad Polka Van Duseit 

Sweet Thoughts, i. light ihcughts Schottische Bray 

Speak to IMe, Speak— Transcription Fiiick 

Sea Foam Polka ^i"^^' 

The Second Oregon UcElroy 

Telephone Scherzo Engleman 

University March Parvin 

Wild Deer Galop Moelling 

Yellow Violet Schottische Finely 

Zephyr Waltz Gross 

Of the future literature of Oregon it may be said that 
peace, home, and prosperity will be the probable themes 
— themes that are 'contemplated in the quiet of the 
homes, and enjoyed by the really progressive classics. 
Agricultural and pastoral life will not be slighted. Nor 
\y'\\\ the sons of the men who made the country permit 
to be forgotten the legends incident to the life of the 
settler, and the trials of the Indian who was gradually 
crowded out of his home that we might be favored. 
We have our ^linnehahas, our Niagaras, our mountain 
chains, wonderful caves, and delightful scenes awaiting 
1he touch of the pen of the poet and the brush of the 
artist. And while there has been enough suffering and 
privation already endured in the history of our state 
to quicken the heart and fire the imagination of the 
orator and the poet, culture and schools will temper the 
sentiment with philosophy and adorn it with artistic 
beauty; and as a result, t'h'^ future Oregonian bids fair 
to live that higher literary life which it is given every 
man in this land to en.joy. 




24 Oregon Liieraiure 



Joaquin Miller 

AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

Autobiographically the Poet says : 

' ' The first thing of mine in print was the valedictory 
class poem, Columbia College, Eugene, Oregon, 1859. 
Oregon, settled by missionaries, was a great place for 
schools from the first. At this date, Columbia College, 
the germ of the University, had many students from 
California, and was famous as an educational center. 
Divest the mind at once of the idea that the schools of 
Oregon were in the least inferior to the best in the world. 
I have never since found such determined students and 
omnivorous readers. We had all the books and none of 
the follies of great centers. 

"I had been writing, or trying to write, since a lad. 
My two brothers and my sister were at my side, our 
home with our parents, and we lived entirely to our- 
selves, and really often made ourselves ill from too much 
study. We were all school teachers when not at college. 
In 1861 my elder brother and I were admitted to practice 
law, under George H. Williams, afterwards Attorney- 
General under President Grant. Brother went at once 
to war, I to the gold mines. 

"My first act there came near costing my life, and 
cost me, tln'ougli snow -blindness, the best use of my eyes 
from that time forth. The agony of snow-blindness is 
unutterable; the hurt irreparable. In those days men 
never murmured or admitted themselves put at disad- 
vantage. I gave up the law for the time and laid hand 
to other things; but here is a paragraph from the pen of 
George A. Waggoner in the February, 1897, Oregon 
Teachers Montldy, telling h( w this calamity came about: 

The first man I met among the fevered crowd was Oregon's 
poet, my old schoolmate, Joaquin Miller. His blue eyes 




JOAQUIN MILLER 



Joaquin Miller 2o 

sparkled with kindly greeting, and, as I took his hand, I knew 
by its quickening pulse and tightened clasp that he, too, was 
sharing in the excitement of the gold hunter. He was then 
in the first flush of manhood, with buoyant spirits, untirmg 
energy, and among a race of hardy pioneers, the bravest of 
the brave. He possessed more than ordinary talent and looked 
forward with hope to the battle of life, expecting to reap his 
share of its honors and rewards. For years he was foremost 
in every desperate enterprise — crossing snow-capped moun- 
tains, swollen rivers, and facing hostile Indians. When snow 
fell fifteen feet on Florence Mountain, and hundreds were 
penned in camp without a word from wives, children and loved 
ones at home,, he said, "Boys, I will bring your letters from 
Lewiston." Afoot and alone, without a trail, he crossed the 
mountain tops, the dangerous streams, the wintry desert of 
Camas Prairie, fighting back the hungry mountain wolves, and 
returned bending beneath his load ot loving .nessages from 
home. One day he was found, in defense of the weak, facing 
the pistol or bowie knife of the desperado; and the next day 
he was washing the clothes and smoothing the pillow of a 
sick comrade. We all loved him. but we were not men who 
wrote for the newspaper or magazine, and his acts of heroism 
and kindness were unchronicled save in the hearts of those who 
knew him in those times and under those trying circumstances. 

"Right into the heart of the then unknown and un- 
named Idaho (Idah-ho) and Montana, gold dust was as 
wheat in harvest time. I, and another, born to the 
saddle, formed an express line and carried letters in 
from the Oregon River and gold dust out, gold dust by 
the horse load after load, till we earned all the gold we 
wanted. Such rides ! and each alone. Indians holding 
the plunging horses ready for us at relays. I had lived 
with and knew, trusted the red men and was never be- 
trayed. Those matchless night rides under the stars, 
dashing into the Orient doors of dawn before me as the 
sun burst through the shining mountain pass— this 
brought my love of song to the sui'face. And ninv I 
traveled, Mexico, South America, I had resolved as I 
rode to set these unwritten lands with the banner of song. 

"I wrote much as I traveled but never kept my verse, 
once published. I thought, and still hold that under 
right conditions and among a right people— and these 
mighty American people are perhaps more nearly right 
than any other that have yet been— anything in litera- 
ture that is worth preserving \yill preserve itself. As 



26 Oregon Literaiure 

none of my verses with this following exception have 
come down on the River of Time it is safe to say nothing 
of all I wrote conld serve any purpose except to feed 
foolish curiosity. I give the following place, written 
years after the college valedictory, not only because it 
is right in spirit but l)ecause it shows how old, how very 
old I was as a boy, and sad at heart over the cruelties 
of man to man. This was my first poem printed, after 
the valedictory, about 1866, and has been drifting around 
ever since: 

IS IT WORTH WHILE? 

Is it worth while that we jostle a brother 

Bearing his load on the rough road of life? 

Is it worth while that we jeer at each other 

In blackness of heart? — that we war to the knife? 
God pity us all in our pitiful strife. 

God pity us all as we jostle each other; 

God pardon us all for the triumphs we feel 
When a fellow goes down; poor heart-broken brother, 

Pierced to the heart; words are keener than steel, 

And mightier far for woe or for weal. 

Were it not well in this brief little journey 

On over the isthmus down into the tide, 
We give him a fish instead of a serpent, 

Ere folding the hands to 'be and a'bide 

For ever and aye in dust at his side? 

Look at the roses saluting each other; 

Look at the herds all at peace on the plain — 

Man, and man only,, makes war on his 'brother. 
And dotes in his heart on his peril and pain — 
Shamed 'by the brutes that go down on the plain. 

Why should you envy a moment of pleasure 

Some poor fellow-mortal has wrung from it all? 

Oh! could you look into his life's 'broken measure — 
Look at the dregs — at the wormwood and gall — 
Look at his heart hung with crape like a pall — 

Look at the skeletons down 'by his hearthstone — 
Look at his cares in their merciless sway. 

I know you would go and say tenderly, lowly, 
Brother — my brother, for aye and a day, 
Lo! Lethe is washing the blackness away. 



I 



Joaquin Miller 27 

"Home again in Oregon I had a little newspaper; . . . 
then elected Judge ; and once more my face to books, 
night and day, as at school. 

' ' Had I melted into my surroundings, instead of read- 
ing and writing continually, life had not been so dismal ; 
but I lived among the stars, an abstemious ghost. Then 
'Specimens,' a thin book of verse, and some lawyers 
laughed, and political and personal foes all up and down 
the land derided. This made me more determined, and 
the next year 'Joaquin et al.,' a book of 124 pages, 
resulted. Bert Harte, of the Overland, behaved bravely ; 
but, as a rule: 'Can any good thing come out of Naz- 
areth?' 

"The first little book has not preserved i!self to me, 
but from a London pirated copy of the second one I find 
that it makes up about half of my first book in London ; 
the songs my heart had sung as I galloped alone under 
the stars of Idaho years before. 

' ' But my health and eyes had failed again ; besides, 
everything was at sixes and sevens, and . . . when I 
asked a place on the supreme bench at the convention, I 
was derisively told: 'Better stick to poetry.' Three 
months later, September 1, 1870, I was kneeling at the 
grave of Burns. I really expected to die there in the 
land of my fathers ; I was so broken and ill. 

"May I proudly admit that I had sought a place on 
the supreme bench in order that I might the more closely 
stick to poetry ? I have a serious purpose in saying this. 
Was Lowell a bad diplomat because he was a good poet? 
Is Gladstone less great because of his three hundred 
books and pamphlets'? The truth is there never was, 
never will be, a great general, .judge, lawyer, anything, 
without being, at heart at least, a great poet. Then let 
not our conventions, presidents, governors, despise the 
young poet who does seek expression. We have plenty 
of lawyers, .judges, silent great men of all sorts ; yet the 
land is songless. Had my laudable ambition not been 
despised, how much better I might have sung; who 
shall say 1 

"Let us quote a few lines from the last pages of my 
little book published before setting out. 



28 Oregon Literature 



ULTIME. 

Had I been content to live on the leafy borders of the scene 
Communinig with the neglected dwellers of the fern-grown glen, 

And glorious storm-stained peaks, with cloud-knit sheen. 

And sullen iron brows, and 'belts of boundless green, 
A peaceful, flowery path, content, I might have trod, . 

And caroled melodies that perchance might have been 
Read with love and a sweet delight. But I kiss the rod. 
I have done as best I knew. The rest is with my God. 

But to conclude. Do not stick me down in the cold wet mud. 
As if I wished to hide, or was ashamed of what I had done. 

Or my friends believed me born of slime, with torpid 'blood. 
No, when this the first short quarter of my life is run. 
Let me ascend in clouds of smoke up to the sun.* 

And as for these lines, they are rough, wild-wood bouquet. 
Plucked from my mountains in the dusk of life, as one 

Without taste or time to select, or put in good array. 

Grasps at once rose, leaf, briar, on the brink, and hastes away. 

"The author must be the sole judge as to what beh)uus 
to Ihe public and what to the flames. Much that I have 
written has been on trial for many years. The honest, 
wise old world of today is a fairly safe .jury. While it is 
true the poet nuist lead rather than be led, yet must he 
lead pleasantly, patiently, or he may not lead at all. So 
that which the world let drop out of sight as the years 
surged by I have, as a rule, not cared to introduce a 
second time. 

"For example take the lines written on the dead mil- 
lionaire of New York. There were perhaps a dozen 
verses at first, but the world found use for and kejjt 
befori^ it only the two following: 

The gold that with the sunlight lies 

In bursting heaps at dawm 
The silver spilling from the skies 

At night to walk upon. 
The diamonds gleaming in the dew 
He never saw, he never knew. 

He got some gold, dug from the mud. 
Some silver, crushed from stones; 



I 



*The Poet, with his own hands, has erected a funeral hill near his home upon the 
Heights, where his remains will "ascend in clouds of smoke up to the sun." 



Joaquin 3Iiller 29 

But the gold was red with dead men's blood. 

The silver black with groans; 
And when he died he moaned aloud 
"They'll make no pocket in my shroud." 

TO A YOUNG WRITER. 

"May I, an old teacher, in conclusion, lay down a 
lesson or two for the youn<; in letters"? After the ^rave 
of Burns, then a month at Byron's tomb, then Schiller, 
Goethe; before battlefields. Heed this. The poet must 
be loyal, loyal not only to his God and his country, but 
loyal, loving, to the great masters who have nourished 
him. 

"This devotion to the masters led me first to set foot 
in London near White Chapel, where "Bayard Taylor 
had lived ; although I went at once to the Abbey. Then 
I lived at Camberwell, because Browning was born there ; 
then at Hemmingford Road, because Tom Hood died 
there. 

"A thin little book now, called 'Pacific Poems,' and 
my watch was in pawn before it was out, for I could not 
find a publisher. One hundred were printed, bearing 
the name of the printer as publisher. What fortune! 
With the press notices in hand, I now went boldly to the 
most aristocratic publisher in London. 

"As to the disposal of our dead, except so far as it 
tends to the good of the living, most especially the poor, 
who waste so much they can ill spare in burials, the 
young poet may say or do as he elects. But in the 
matters of resignation to the Infinite and belief in im- 
mortality, he shall have no choice. There never was a 
poet and there never will be a poet who disputed God, 
or so degraded himself as to doubt his eternal existence. 

"One word as to the choice of theme. First, let it be 
new. The M^orld has no use for two Homers, or even a 
second Shakespeare, were he possible. 

"And now think it not intrusion if one no longer 
young should ask the coming poet to not waste his 
forces in discovering this truth: The sweetest flowers 
grow closest to the ground. We are all too ready to 
choose some lurid battle theme or exalted subject. Ex- 



30 Oregon Literature 

alt your theme rather than ask your theme to exalt you. 
Braver and better to celebrate the lowly and forgivin<^ 
grasses under foot than the stately cedars and sequoias 
overhead. They can speak for themselves. It has been 
scornfully said that all my subjects are of the low or 
savage. It might have been as truly said that some of 
my heroes and heroines, as Reil and Sophia Petrowska, 
died on the scaffold. But believe me, the people of heart 
are the unfortunate. How unfcn'tunate that man who 
never knew misfortune! And thank God, the heart of 
the world is with the unfortunate ! There never has yet 
been a great poem written of a rich man or gross. And 
I glory in the fact that I never celebrated war or war- 
riors. Thrilling as are war themes, you will not find one, 
purposely, in all my books. If you would have the heart 
of the world with you, put heart in your work, taking 
care that you do not try to pass brass for gold. They 
are much alike to look upon, but only the ignorant can 
be deceived. And what is poetry without heart! In 
truth, were I asked to define poetry I would answer in a 
single word, Heart. 

"Let me again invoke you, be loyal to your craft, not 
only to your craft, but to your fellow scribes. To let 
envy lure you to leer at even the humblest of them is to 
admit yourself beaten ; to admit yourself to, be one of 
the thousand failures betraying the one success. Braver 
it were to knife in the back a holy man at prayer. I 
plead for something more than ihe individual here. I 
plead for the entire Republic. To not have a glorious 
literature of our own is to be another Nineveh, Babylon, 
Turkey. Nothing ever has paid, nothinar ever will pay 
a nation like poetry. How many millions have we paid, 
are still paying, bleak and rocky little Scotland to behold 
the land of Burns'? Byron led the world to scatter its 
gold through the ruins of Italy, where he had mused and 
sang, and Italy was rebuilt. Greece survived a thousand 
years on the deathless melodies of her mighty dead, and 
now once again is the iK^irt of the globe. 

"Finally, use the briefest little bits of Saxon words 
at hand. The world is waiting for ideas, not for words. 
Remember Shakespeare's scorn of 'words, words, words.' 



Joaquin Miller 31 

RemonilxT always that it was the short Roman sword 
that went to the lieart and concjuered the world, not the 
lon^' tasseled and bannered lance of the barbarian. Write 
this down in red and remember. 

"Will we ever have an American literature? Yes, 
when we leave sound and words to the winds. American 
science has swept time and space aside. American sci- 
ence dashes alon^^ at fifty, sixty miles an hour; but 
American literature still lumbers along in the old- 
fashioned English stage-coach at ten miles an hour ; and 
sometimes with a red-coated outrider blowing a horn. 
We must leave all this behind us. AVe have not time 
for words. A man who uses a great big sounding word 
when a short one will do is to that extent a robber of 
time. A jewel that depends greatly on its settings is not 
a great jewel. When the Messiah of American literature 
comes he will come singing, so far as may be, in words of 
a single syllable. ' ' 

THE POET AT HOME. 

While traveling in California recently, the writer 
could not resist the temptation ofiPered to visit the Recluse 
Poet in his home at Oakland Heights, where he dwells 
as Walt. Whitman and all true children of nature love 
to dwell, surrounded by rural scenes, in close com- 
munion wdth nature. The drive from East Oakland to 
the Heights, a distance cf two miles, is beautiful in the 
extreme. Broad and smooth, the road sKirts a ravine 
and winds about the hill ; it is cool and refreshing, being 
shaded on either side by ]\Ionterey Cyprus, eucalyptus, 
and acacia trees. On arriving at the Poet's home, the 
first sight one gets of the man is furnished by the home 
he has built for his mother. His father being long since 
dead, with loving hand the Poet has drawn his mother 
away from the more active struggles of life to spend her 
remaining days with him on the mountain, near the 
clouds. Then the conservatory filled with choice flowers 
speaks of him as a lover of nature, but the man— the 
lover of nature— the Poet himself— was found in bed, in 
a little cell whose dimensions and primitive simplicity 



32 Oregon Lilcrature 

forcibly su^'^ested the early settleiueiit of the Coast. 
Although only three o'clock in the afternoon, he had 
retired to rest, but received ns most graciously, without 
rising. The writer was invited to a seat on the bed at 
his feet. Here was a man who had received the hospital- 
ity of the most polished men and women of Europe ; a 
man who had been a welcome guest in the most mag- 
nificent dwellings in the old world; a man whose attain- 
ments now entille him to a welcome to any society he 
may enter; a man who had abandoned all to follow the 
bent of his genius and to live with the primitive sur- 
roundings of a pioneer, with wants as simple as those of 
a child. 

A survey of the apartment revealed a pair of trousers 
and high-heeled boots suspended from nails driven in 
the wall, an ancient bureau in one corner, a horse-hide 
rug on the floor, and a straw hat banded with a scarlet 
ribbon ornamenting one of the high posts of the bed. 
Then the eye catches a number of folded papers tacked 
to the wall above the Poet's head: these are letters re- 
ceived from distinguished literary persons. And, last, 
we were shown the photograph of an Indian maiden, 
daughter of Old John, Chief of the Rolhu' Riv(M- Tudi^ns, 
whose subjugation in 1856 cost many lives and two mil- 
lion dollars. There were no lamps, candles, nor books to 
be seen. The Poet rises with the birds, and with them 
he retires. He never burns "the midnight oil" and 
complains that there are too many books. He declares 
that men rely too much on books; that they are valued 
by the number of books 1hey carry with them, whether 
or not they know anything of nature or of nature's God 
of whom books should speak. 

Everything about the man is ([uaint, everything 
around him is curious. The rusr on the floor is said to be 
the skin of a faithful steed which carried (reneral Fre- 
mont across the plains in 1843. 

There seems to be nothing in him like other men except 
his care for flowers and his love for his mother. But 
the Poet — it is he of whom we now speak — once his lips 
move, and the little room with its quaint furniture, bare 
floor, bare walls and ceiling, disappear; and we stand 



Joaquin Miller 33 

■with bared brows beneath the broad canopy above, while 
our ears are filled with the murmuring of gurgling 
streams whose surface gives back to heaven the light of 
countless stars. Old words take on new meaning; old 
thoughts stand forth new born, and living waters follow 
every stroke. We were inteiested in all he said, but time 
admonished us to trespass no longer on his resting hours. 
Reluctantly we said "good-l)ye" and were glad our road 
wound lingeringly around the hill, making the transition 
less abrupt from the Poet's ideal world to the busy, 
bustling scenes of every-day city life on the plain below ; 
yet our thoughts were still of the Poet on the mountain 
where he is keeping vigil, his ear filled with the low, 
sweet music of nature, while his eye catches visions from 
the clouds which pass over his head. 

His numerous works and particularly his recently 
published volume of poems, "The Songs of the Soul," 
show him to be no idler. His spindle and distaff are 
ever in his hand; he spins the flax God sends, handing 
the threads down to his fellows on the plain. May we 
not weave some of them into the woof or warp of our 
lives ? 

Joaquin Miller's complete poetical works have been 
abridged and nublished in a very neat volume of 330 
pages. The Poet of the Sierras has become his own 
censor so that he might give to the world in one volume 
the cream only of all that he has written ; and no critic 
could have been more judicious and severe than he. The 
preface is an autobiography coupled with some of his 
"lessons not found in books." This. is Joaquin Miller's 
greatest book, for in it his gentleness of manner and 
simplicity of style leads the reader to feel that the Bard 
upon the Heights has in the evening of life tuned his 
harp in perfect accord with the sweeter, softer, gentler 
strains of the bird-song in the land of the western sunset. 

NOTES AND ANECDOTES. 

He was exploring a laroe map in the Capitol of 
Oregon. His is a graceful fissure of medium height and 
straight as an arrow ; face refined, but firm -. beard, the 



34 Oregon Literature 

beard of a Boer, and a wealth of auburn hair gradually 
growing snowy as it rests on his liberal shoulders. After 
finding the ancient boundary of Grant county, he said : 
"I used to be Judge over there— administered justice 
with a law book and two six-shooters. ' ' This was Joaquin 
Miller; and a look of '49 still lingering in his face gave 
the remark peculiar force so that no bystander contra- 
dicted the speaker. 

This scene suggests another. At the close of a conven- 
tion—a political battle— in Portland in 1870, when mat- 
ters terminated sadly, as they frequently do on such 
occasions, three men were standing by an old fence dis- 
cussing "what of the future." The most disappointed 
of the trio remarked, "I have failed to secure the nomin- 
ation, and am going to Europe." He left, but that day 
was a milestone in their lives. One has since graced the 
gubernatoral chair as Governor Pennoyer, another the 
United States Circuit Court bench as Judge Bellinger, 
while the third, who was the first ambassador of Oregon 
literature to the old world, has written classic lines and 
noble sentiments over the name of Joaquin Miller. 

It is said of Mr. Miller that he could never endure un- 
necessary delays. One day. when he was a young man, 
he decided to attend a wedding in which he was to be 
one of the principals. He knew his own heart, but had 
never met the lady of his choice. Addressing a letter 
to her, he obtained consent to an interview. He visited 
her for the first time on Thursday; they were married 
the next Sunday, thereby losing no time. 

Formalities were always tedious to him. The story 
goes that when he visited England the first time the 
Queen desired to meet him in her mansion. He promptly 
declined the invitation because he had the impression 
that his choice Sierra costume would not be admissable 
on that royal occasion. 

Mr. Miller's wit never fails him. Recently, while the 
guest of Cauthorn Hall Club, which is connected with 
the Oregon State Agricultural College, a lady said: "Mr. 
Miller, did you meet the Queen in England?" his prompt 
answer to the fair one being : ' ' No, I met her in Oregon. ' ' 

He is humble. He commonly alludes to other Pacific 



Joaquin Miller 35 

poets as his superiors; and takes delight in speaking of 
Simpson's "Beautiful Willamette" as the greatest poem 
written in Oregon. He refers to the best of his own 
writings with certain pride, not because he thinks they 
are especially, good, but because they are his best. 

Contrary to current reports, Mr. Miller writes his 
poems while he is in bed. He writes, rests and reflects 
at the same time. 

He loves to teach a truth. The Bible said, "Judge 
not that ye be not judged." To inculcate the same prin- 
ciple, Mr. Miller said in words as short and simple as 
Bunyan or Poor Richard could have used : 

In men whom men condemn as ill, 
I find so much of goodness still; 
In men whom men pronounce divine, 

I find so much of sin and blot; 
I hesitate to draw the line 

Between the two, when God has not. 

Some one has written of him: 

"Excepting Dwight L. Moody, I never heard an> one 
read the Bible as Joaquin Miller reads it. He gets so 
much out of it, and grows so hanpy that his reading is 
inspirational. I have heard gif ed elocutionists read 
* The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. ' Then some 
aged mother who scarcely knew her 'a, b, c's,' but who 
could read her title clear to mansions in the skies, re- 
peated the same words with telling effect ; so charming, 
so touching. But the Poet has the art of the elocutionist, 
the understanding of the mother, and the interpretation 
of the poet. One of the prettiest arguments I have heard 
for the authenticity of the scriptures was Joaquin Mil- 
ler's manner of reading a few bibical passages— they 
seemed so beautiful, so divine." 

"49." 

We have worked our claims. 
We have spent our gold. 
Our barks are astrand on the bars; 
We are battered and old, 



36 Oregon Literature 

Yet at night we behold, 
Outcroppings of gold in the stars. 

Chorus— 

The' battered and old, 
Our hearts are bold, 

Yet oft do we repine ; 
For the days of old, 
For the days of gold. 

For the days of forty-nine. 



Where the rabbits play. 
Where the (jnail all day 

Pipe on the chaparral hill ; 
A few more days. 
And the last of us lays 

His pick aside and all is still. 



Chorus— 



We are wreck and stray, 

We are cast away. 
Poor battered old hnlks and spars: 

But we hope and pray. 

On the judgment day, 
We shall strike it up in the stars. 



Chorus- 



WILLIAM BROWN OF OREGON. 

They called him Pill, the hired man, 
But she her name was Mary Jane, 
The squire's daughter; and to reign 

The belle from Ber-she-be to Dan 

Her little game. How lovers rash 
Got mittens at the spelling school ! 
How many a mute, inglorious fool 

Wrote rhymes and sighed and dyed nuistache ' 



Jnaquui MiUcr 37 

This hired man had loved her long, 
Had loved her best and first and last, 
Her very garments as she passed 

For him had symphony and song. 

So when one day with flirt and frown 

She called him "Bill," he raised his heart, 
He caught her eye and faltering said, 
■ I love you ; and my name is Brown. ' ' 

She fairly waltzed with rage; she wept; 

You would have thought the house on fire. 

She told her sire, the portly squire. 
Then smelt her smelling-salts and slept. 
Poor AVilliam did what could be done; 

He swung a pistol on each hip. 

He gathered up a great ox-whip 
And drove right for the setting sun. 

He crossed the big backbone of earth, 

He saw the snowy mountains rolled 

Like nasty billows; saw the gold 
Of great big sunsets ; felt the birth 
Of sudden dawn upon the plain ; 

And every night did William Brown 

Eat pork and beans and then lie down 
And dream sweet dreams of Mary Jane. 

Her lovers passed. A\"olves hunt in packs. 
They sought for bigger game ; somehow 
They seemed to see about her brow 

The forky sign of turkey tracks. 

The teter-board of life goes up. 
The teter-board of life goes down, 
The sweetest face must learn to frown ; 

The biggest dog has been a pup. 

maidens! pluck not at the air; 
The sweetest flowers I have found 
Grow rather close unto the ground, 

And highest places are most bare. 



38 Oregon Literature 

Why, you had better win the grace 
Of one poor cussed Af-ri-can 
Than win the eyes of every man 

In love alone with his own face. 



At last, she nursed her true desire. 

She sighed, she wept for William Brown. 

She watched the splendid sun go down 
Like some great sailing ship on fire, 
Then rose and checked her trunks right on; 

And in the cars she lunched and lunched. 

And had her ticket punched and punched, 
Until she came to Oregon. 

She reached the limit of the lines, 
She wore blue specs upon her nose, 
Wore rather short and manly clothes, 

And so set out to reach the mines. 

Her right hand held a Testament, 
Her pocket held a parasol. 

And thus equipped right on she went. 
Went water-proof and water-fall. 

She saw a miner gazing down. 

Slow stirring something with a spoon ; 
"0, tell me true and tell me soon, 
What has become of William Brown?" 
He looked askance beneath her specs, 

Then stirred his cocktail round and round, 
Then raised his head and sighed profound, 
And said, "He's handed in his checks." 

Then care fed on her damaged cheek. 
And she grew faint, did Mary Jane, 
And smelt her smelling-salts in vain, 

Yet wandered on, way-worn and weak. 

At last upon a hill alone; 

She came, and here she sat her down; 

For on that hill there stood a stone. 

And, lo ! that stone read, "William Brown." 



Joaquin Miller 39 

"0 William Brown! O William Brown! 

And here you rest at last," she said, 
"With this lone stone above your head, 
And forty miles from any town] 
I will plant cypress trees, I will, 

And I will build a fence around 

And I will fertilize the ground 
With tears enough to turn a mill." 



She went and got a hired man. 

She brought him forty miles from town. 

And in the tall grass squatted down 
And bade him build as she should plan. 
But cruel cowboys with their bands 

They saw, and hurriedly they ran 

And told a bearded cattle man 
Somebody builded on his lands. 

He took his rifle from the rack, 

He girt himself in battle pelt. 

He stuck two pistols in his belt, 
And mounting on his horse's back, 
He plunged ahead. But when they shewed 

A w^oman fair, about his eyes 

He pulled his hat, and he likewise 
Pulled at his beard, and chewed and chewed. 

At last he gat him down and spake; 
' ' lady, dear, what do you here ! ' ' 
' ' I build a tomb unto my dear, 
I plant sweet flowers for his sake." 
The bearded man threw his two hands 

Above his head, then brought them down 
And cried, "0, I am William Brown, 
And this the corner-stone of mv lands!" 



The preacher rode a spotted mare. 
He galloped forty miles or more ; 
He swore he never had before 

Seen bride or bridegroom half so fair. 



40 Oregon Literature 

And all the In j ins they came down 
And feasted as the night advanced, 
And all the cowboys drank and danced, 

And cried: "Big; Injin! William Brown.'' 



THE RIVER OF REST. 

A beautiful stream is the River of Rest; 

The still, wide waters sweep clear and cold. 
A tall mast crosses a star in the west, 

A white sail gleams in the west world 's gold ; 
It leans to the shore of the River of Rest — 
The lily-lined shore of the River of Rest. 

The boatman rises, he reaches a hand, 

He knows you well, he will steer you true, 

And far, so far, from all ills upon land, 

From hates, from fatf s, that pursue and pursue, 

Far over the lily-lined River of Rest — 

Dear, mystical, magical River of Rest. 

A storied, sweet stream is the River of Rest: 
The souls of all time keep its ultimate shore; 

And journey you east or journey you west, 
Unwilling, or willing, sure-footed or sore, 

You surely will come to this River of Rest — 

This beautiful, beautiful River of Rest. 



TO JUANITA. 

Come, listen love to the voice of the dove, 
Come, hearken and hear him say 

There are many tomorrows, my love, my love, 
But only one today. 

And all day long you can hear him say 

This day in purple is rolled. 
And the baby stars of the Milky Way 

They are cradled in cradles of gold. 



Joaquin Miller 41 

Now what is the secret, serene gray dove, 

Of singing so sweetly alway, 
There are many tomorrows, my love, my love, 

But only one today. 

THE PASSING OF TENNYSON. 

We knew it, as God's prophet's knew; 

We knew it, as mute red men know, 
When ]\Iars leapt searching heaven through 

With tiaming torch that he must go. 
Then Browning, he who knew the stars. 
Stood forth and faced insatiate J\Iars. 

Then up from Cambridge rose and turned 
Sweet Lowell from his Druid trees — 

Turned where the great star blazed and burned, 
As if his own soul might appease, 

Yet on and on through all the stars 

Still searched and searched insatiate Mars. 

Then staunch Walt Whitman saw and knew ; 

Forgetful of his "Leaves of Grass," 
He heard his "Drum Taps," and God drew 

His great soul through the shining pass. 
Made light, made bright by burnished stars. 
Made scintillant from flaming Mars. 

Then soft-voiced Whittier was heard 
To cease ; was heard to sing no more ; 

As you have heard some sweetest bird 
The more because its song is o'er, 

Yet brighter up the street of stars 

Still blazed and burned and beckoned Mars. 

And then the king came, king of thought. 

King David with his harp and crown . . . 
How wisely well the gods had wrought 

That these had gone and sat them down 
To wait and welcome 'mid the stars • 
All silent in the light of Mars. 



42 Oregon I/iterature 

All silent . . . So, he lies in state . . . 

Our redwoods drip and drip with rain . . . 
Against our rock-locked Golden Gate 

We hear the great sad sobbing main. 
But silent all . . . He passed the stars 
That year the whole world turned to Mars. 

COLUMBUS. 

Behind him lay the gray Azores, 

Behind the Gates of Hercules; 
Before him not the ghost of shores, 

Before him only shoreless seas. 
The good mate said: "Now must we pray, 

For lo ! the very stars are gone. 
Brave Adm'rl, speak; what shall I say?" 
"Why, say: 'Sail on! sail on! sail on!' " 

"My men grow mutinous day by day: 

My men grow ghastly, wan and weak." 
The stout mate thought of home ; a spray 

Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek. 
"What shall I say, brave Adm'rl, say 

If we sight naught but seas at dawn?" 
' ' Why, you shall say at break of day : 

'Sail on! sail on! sail on! sail on!' " 

They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow, 

Until at last Ihe blanched mate said: 
"Why, now, not even God would know 

Should I and all my men fall dead. 
These very winds forget their way. 

For God from these dread seas is gone. 
Now speak, brave Adm'rl; speak and say — " 

He said : ' ' Sail on ! sail on ! and on ! " 

They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate, 
"This mad sea shows his teeth tonight. 
He curls his lip, he lies in wait. 
With lifted teeth, as if to bite! 



Joaquin Millfr 43 

Brave Adm'rl, say but one good word, 

What shall we do when hope is gone?" 
The words leapt as a leaping sword: 
' ' Sail on ! sail on ! sail on ! and on ! " 

Then, pale and worn he paced his deck. 

And peered through darkness. Ah, that night 
Of all dark nights ! And then a speck— 

A light ! A light ! A light ! A light ! 
It grew, a starlit flag unfurled ! 

It grew to be Time's burst of dawn. 
He gained a world; he gave that world 

Its grandest lesson : " On ! sail on ! " 

THE FORTUNATE ISLES. 

You sail and you seek for the Fortunate Isles, 

The old Greek Isles of the yellow birds' song? 
Then, steer straight on, through the watery miles— 
Straight on, straight on, and you can't go wrong; 
Nay, not to the left— nay, not to the right- 
But on, straight on, and the Isles are in sight— 
The Fortunate Isles where the yellow birds sing. 
And life lies girt with a golden ring. 

These Fortunate Isles, they are not so far— 
They lie within reach of the lowliest door ; 
You can see them gleam by the twilight star, 

You can hear them sing by the moon's white shore- 
Nay ! never look back ! Those level gravestones, 
They were landing steps, they were steps unto thrones 
Of glory of souls that have sailed before, 
And have set white feet on the fortunate shore. 

And what are the names of the Fortunate Isles? 

Why, Duty, and Love, and a large content. 
Lo! these are the Isles of the watery miles, 

That God let down from the firmament. 
Lo! Duty, and Love, and a true man's trust. 
Your forehead to God, though your feet in the dust ; 

Aye, Duty to man, and to God meanwhiles. 
And these, friend ! are the Fortunate Isles. 



44 Orffjo)! Liferaiurc 

THE MOTHERS OF MEN. 

The bravest battle that ever was fought ! 

Shall I tell you where and when? 
On the map of the world you will find it not- 

'Twas fought by the mothers of men. 

Nay, not with cannon or battle shot, 

With sword or nobler pen ! 
Nay, not with eloquent words or thought, 

From mouths of wonderful men ! 

But deep in the walled-up woman's heart — 
Of woman that would not yield, 

But bravely, silently, bore her part — 
Lo, there is that battle field ! 

No marshaling troup, no bivouac song, 
No banner to gleam or wave ; 

But oh ! these battles they last so long— 
From babyhood to the grave. 

Yet faithful still as a bridge of stars. 
She fights in her walled-up town^ 

Fights on and on in the endless wars. 
Then silent, unseen, goes down. 

Oh, spotless woman in a world of shame; 

With splendid and silent scorn. 
Go back to God as white as you came— 

The kingliest warrior born ! 




EDWIN MARKHAM 



Edwin Markham 

AUTHOR OF *'tI1E MAN WITH THE HOE.'' 

With an ancestry of legislators, pi-eaehers, scientists 
and other nation-builders extending back to William 
Penn's first cousin and secretary— Colonel AVilliam 
Markham, Deputy Governor of Pennsylvania— the 
toiler's friend and poet, Edwin Markham, was born at 
Oregon City, April 23, 1852. Oft' for California at the 
age of five, the fatherless lad lived in the companionship 
of a stern mother with poetic taste, a deaf brother, and 
the poems of Byron and Homer— society which would 
naturally tend to make a peculiar man. Colonial blood ; 
Oregon born; California culture; a teacher and poet; 
this is Edwin Markham, th.^ author of ''The Man With 
the Hoe." 

A recent critic says of ^Ir. Markham 's verse: "One of 
its distinct features is its breadth of range. This gives 
it greatness— a greatness unknown to the singers of the 
flowery way. He breaks open the secret of the poppy; 
he feels the' pain in the b^nt back of labor ; he goes down 
to the dim places of the dead ; he reaches in heart-warm 
prayer to the Father of Life." 

Another has written: "The salient features of Mr. 
Markham 's poetry are vigorous imagination, picturesque- 
ness of phraseology, and nervous tenseness of style. He 
is almost always at white heat. He seldom or never sits 
poised on the calm, ethereal heights of contemplation. 
He is mightily stirred by his teeming fancies, and his 
lines are as burning brands." 

It warms the heart to read such glowing verses, in 
which the thoughts are as red coals in an open fire. It 
is a tremendous relief after the dreary platitudes of the 
average magazine drivelers, with their wooden echoes 
of Keats and Wordsworth, to read the lines of a man 
who has thought out style of his own, and M^ho hurls 



46 Oregon Literature 

his ideas out bravely and loudly. The poem which gives 
its title to the book was inspired by Millet's well known 
picture. IMr. Markham's greatest poem is an outcry for 
the recognition of the wrongs of labor. In the Man 
with the Hoe he sees the type of the down-trodden work- 
man, and in five stanzas thunders his sermon. 



THE MAN WITH THE HOE. 

Bowed 'by the weight of centuries he leans 

Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground. 

The emptiness of ages in his face, 

And on his 'back the burden of the world. 

Who made him dead to rapture and despair. 

A thing that grieves not and that never hopes. 

Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox? 

Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw? 

Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow? 

Whose breath blew out the light within this brain? 

Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave 
To have dominion over sea and land; 
To trace the stars and seaich the heavens for powers; 
To feel the passion of Eternity? 

Is this thi' Dream He dreamed who shaped the suns 
And pillared the blue firmament with light? 
Down all the stretch of Hell to its last gulf 
There is no shape more terrible than this — 
More tongued with censure of the world's blind greed- 
More filled with signs and portents for the soul — 
More fraught with menace to the universe. 

What gulfs between him and the seraphim! 
Slave of the wheel of labor, what to him 
.^re Plato and the swing of Pleiades? 
What the long reaches of the peaks of song. 
The rift of dawn, the red reddening of the rose? 
Through this dread shape the sufifering ages look; 
Time's tragedy is in that aching stoop; 
Through this dread shape humanity betrayed, 
Plundered, profaned and disinherited, 
Cries protest that is also prophecy. 

O masters, lords and rulers in all lands. 

Is this the handiwork you give to God, 

This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quenched? 

How will you ever straighten up this shape; 

Give back the upward looking and the light; 



Edwin Markham 47 

Re'build in it the music and the dream; 
Touch it again with immortality; 
Make right the immemorial infamies, 
Perfidious wrongs,, immedicaible woes? 

O masters, lords and rulers in all lands. 
How will the Future reckon with this Man? 
How answer his brute question in that Hour 
When whirlwinds of rebellion shake the world? 
How will it be with kingdoms and with kings — 
With those who shaped him to the thing he is — 
When this dumb Terror shall reply to God 
After the silence of the centuries? 

True greatness is measured by one's ability to stamp 
his impress upon humanity. ^Ir. ^larkham wouhl there- 
fore be great if he had done nothing more than to cause 
the world to pause and consider these four lines written 
of the servile laborer: 

Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans 
Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground. 
The emptiness of ages in his face, 
And on his 'back the burden of the world. 

People of all nationalities clearly see in these words 
the man with a hoe as painted by Millet and described 
by Markham ; and, as suggested by a Western lady, they 
have not entirely overlooked the woman with the wash- 
tub and broom. Hence as a result of the thought he 
has awakened there is a demand for greater intelligence 
in the humbler pursuits of honorable industry. The 
world now wants to know if that "emptiness of ages" 
really exists in the face of honest labor; for if it does 
exist there, the same world will correct it, and that upon 
the inspiration of Edwin Markham, the Poet of Brooklyn, 
who delights to be remembered as a native Oregonian. 



Mrs. Ella Higginson 

One of the prettiest little valleys the h(»meseeker 
chanced to find in the early days of Oreiion, was an 
amphitheater excavated in the Bine Moun'ains, a thou- 
sand feet deep. Every passer-by has noticed its sym- 
metry, remarked its beanty, been inspired by its 
grandeur, and longed to liuger within its great rugged 
walls. Clear atmosphere, lofty sky. sublimity and sun- 
shine—save when the black storm-cloud angrily crawls 
up close behind Mount Emily, and with thundering 
threats sends the stampeding' herds pell-mell into the 
deep canyons, to hide from winds that sway the fir. the 
tamarack, and the pine. It is one of those places where 
the heavens fit down so closely over the mountain rim 
that the valley and the heavens seem to make up the 
whole world. In fact, it is world enough for those who 
live there. Nature made it the abode of home-building, 
progress, and contentment ; and the immigrants who set- 
tled there seldom have left it to return to the land 
whence they came. 

Once, according to an ancient legend, some Frenchmen 
traveled that way, and, having ascended a ridse where 
the old emigrant road peeped over the crest, at the vision 
lying ahead, suddenly exclaimed "Orand Ronde!" It 
was in the month of May, and the first view of the pic- 
turesque valley broke in upon them at a time when that 
spot of emerald, hidden away in the Blue Mountains, 
waves like a summer sea — a time when the lightnins: 
begins to sparkle on the minarets above, and a hundred 
thermal springs steadily send up clouds of hot steam, 
rarefying the lower atmosphere and invitinai: the cool, 
exhilarating breezes from the high snowcliffs of the 
Powder River Range. Such Avas the scene that inspired 
the Frenchmen to exclaim "Grand Ronde," a name 
which the geographers have been repeating ever since, 
a name which will be perpetuated in prose and in song. 




MRS. ELLA HIGGINSON 



Mrs. Ella Uigginson 49 

Of this charmincr spot made homelike to the Poetess, 
Mrs. Ella Hig:ginson has written the following poem: 

THE GRAND RONDE VALLEY. 

Ah, me! I know how like a golden flower 

The Grande Ronde Valley lies this August night, 

Locked in by dimpled hills where purple light 
Lies wavering. There at the sunset hour 
Sink downward, like a rain'bow-tinted shower, 

A million colored rays, soft, changeful, 'bright. 

Later the large moon rises, round and white, 
And three Blue Mountain pines against it tower. 
Lonely and dark. A coyote's mournful cry 

Sinks from the canyon — whence the river leaps. 

. A Wade of silver underneath the moon. 
Like restful seas the yellow wheat fields lie. 

Dreamless and still. And while the valley sleeps, 
O hear! — the lulla'bies that low winds croon. 

Sueh was the childhood home of Mrs. Ella Higginson, 
the eharniing poet and noted story writer, whose life 
work bids fair to honor the name of the delightfnl valley 
in which her early thonsrhts were nnrtnred. Born at 
Council Grove, Kansas, she crossed the plains while an 
•infant, and wi^^h her parents located at La Grande, which 
is beautifully situated on the most prominent dais of 
Grand Ronde Valley. The country was sparsely settled, 
and as yet untried, and there were ponies and ponies 
and ponies. And it was then that little Ella Rhoads, 
afterward Mrs. Ella Higsjinson. acquired the love and 
the art of horseback riding. Sidesaddles and riding- 
steeds were as fashionable then as in the days of Oneen 
Elizabeth ; and it is said that the little schoolgirl deter- 
mined to excel the horsemanship of the Queen who made 
England one of the first nations of Europe. It was her 
delight, and she practiced the art. On her swift steed 
she swept over the valley and drank in the poetry of the 
scenes, the anthem of the winds, and the voice of the 
thunder as it broke through the mountain gorge. These 
attuned her muse, and she began to sing to a delighted 
people. Thus she became a master with the rein and 
the pen. 

True poetry is what the muse has learned in nature 



50 ' Oregon Literature 

without the aid of books— simply direct eoiiimiinion with 
created things. In order to fathom these wonders, the 
poet chooses to be alone where naught can disturb him. 
Solitude is his opportunity, and silence his s udy hour. 
He lives amid his thoughts, hence partakes of the sights 
and the sounds that inspire them. He loves nature's 
works, for he sees God in everything about him. The 
lily, the nightingale, the waters and the mountains, all 
become living things to him, and their influence upon 
him is but another one of God's marvelous dealings with 
man. N. P. Willis, upon visiting the American rapids, 
applied this thought in these words: "This opportun- 
ity to invest Niagara with a human soul and human- 
feelings, is a common effect upon the minds of visitors, 
in every part of its wonderful phenomena." Of the 
influence of scenery upon the feelings and actions, 
Bayard Taylor, upon viewing the same falls from another 
point, wrote: "I was not impressed by the sublimity of 
the scene, nor even by its terror, but solely by the fascin- 
ation of its wonderful beanty— a fascination which con- 
tinually tempted me to plunge into the sea of fused 
emerald, and lose myself in the dance of the rainbows. ' ' 
Anthony Trollope, although not a poet, has recognized 
this principle in his utterances upon visiting the falls: 
"You will find yourself among the waters, as though 
you belonged to them. The cool, liquid green will run 
through your veins, and the voice of the catarac*" will 
be the expression of your own heart. You will fall as 
the bright waters fall, rushinsr down into your new 
world with no hesitation and with no dismay ; and you 
will rise again as the spray rises, brisrht, beautiful and 
pure." Accordingly it must not be forgotten that the 
poet whose life and works we are sMidying, lived for 
a long time beside the Willamette Falls at Oregon City. 
Nor must the fact be overlooked that the AVillamette Falls 
are but a common-sense edition of the Niagara Falls, 
which so manv critics have said stimulate genius and 
influence poetic art. There is a rumble and a dashing 
in the lines Mrs. Higginson has written that echo back 
to the splendid dashing and rhythmic rumble of 1he 
mighty falls of our poetic river. 



Mrs. Ella Higginson 51 

From Oregon City she moved to Portland, Oregon, 
where she met, loved and was married to Mr. Russell 
Garden Higginson, a gentleman of Boston culture, who 
descended from Francis Higginson, one of the founders 
of New England. In 1882. she. with her husband, moved 
to New Whatcom, where they have since resided in their 
cozy upland home, which furnishes a commanding view 
of the snow domes and the hills, the ocean and the shore, 
that have suggested so many themes the author has 
written in pretty musical English, for the peoples of 
two continents. 

While Mrs. Higginson writes both poetry and prose 
excellently, she has proved herself a true poet, both in 
verse and in lines not set in metrical array. Many of 
her short, unpretentious story sentences, are little 
poems within themselves—prose poems scattered in bits 
of tragedy, like particles of silver and gold, found in 
the pathway of the Indian, the leper and the refugee. 

As a poet she won hfr first recognition in literary 
circles. The Overland 3Iont1dij editorially said of her: 
"A few years aero there appeared in various Eastern and 
Pacific Coast publications frequent bits of verse of such 
high merit, fraught with so much feeling, and possessing 
so sensuous a charm, that they spraner into immediate 
prominence. Many of them were widelv conied by the 
newspapers East and AA^est. and republished in the lead- 
ing reviews of Loudon and the East. One that at- 
Iracted univerfsal atteiition was 'Ood's Creed,' which ap- 
peared originally in Frank Leslie's Illustrated Weekly. 
The vers^^s quoted are characteristic of the poet : 

Foreive me that hear thv creeds 

Unawed and unafraid; 
Thev are too small for one whose ears 

Have heard God's orp:an played — 
Who in wide, noble solitudes 

In simple faith has prayed. 

I watched the dawn come un the east, 

Like angels chaste and still; 
I felt my heart beat wild and strong, 

My veins with white fire thrill. 
For it was Easter morn, and Christ 

Was with me on the hill. z 



52 Oregon LifcraUire 

Her popTiiR, which are always musical, breathe a spirit 
of piety which coinniend them to the most. refined ; and 
her great spirituality will always win her an increasincr 
patronage among the ever-growing circle of readers who 
learn to regard her as their friend and adviser. Leading 
London and American reviewers have commented favor- 
ably upon what she has wri^^ten. in her three volumes of 
poetry, "A Bundi of Clover," "The Snow Pearls." and 
''When thr Birds Go North Again." The Boston 
l^veninc] Gazette, Providence Journal, Chicago Gravhic, 
Dilletante, and the Northwest Magazine have said re- 
spectively of her work as a poet: 

"Its merits are a simple directness, truth to nature', 
sincerity and feeling that occasionally touches the depth 
of passion." 

"They have a melody to an unusual deo-ree." 

"Her w^ork is distinguished by its dplicaev and fire. 
. . . Her genius makes her cosmopolitan." 

"Filled wuth forceful imacerv and similes of beauty. 
. . . An exquisite bit of work." 

"Ella Higginson's cenius entitles her to be ranked 
close to Joaquin Miller. . . . There is heart and soul in 
her Avork. embodied in the richest and most delicate 
imagery." 

That some knowledcre of her poetrv can be cleaned 
from personal inspection, the following selections are 
given : 



FOUR-LEAF CLOVER. 



I know a place where *h<' sun is like gohl. 
And the cherrv bleoms burst with snow. 

And down underneath is the loveliest nook. 
Where the four-leaf clovers grow. 

One leaf is for hope, anl one is for faith. 

And one is for love, you know. 
And God put another in for luck— 

If you search, you will find where they grow. 



Mrs. Ella Higginson 53 

But you must have hope, and you must have faith, 
You must love and be strong— and so— 

If you work, if you wait, you will find the place 
Where the four-leaf clovers stow. 



THE RHODODENDRON BELLS. 

Across the warm night's subtle dusk. 
Where linger yet the purple light 

And perfume of the wild, sweet musk— 
So softly glowing, sofily bright. 

Tremble the rhododendron bells, 
The rose-pink rhododendron bells. 

Tall, slender trees of evergreen 

That know the moist winds of the sea, 

And narrow leaves of satin's sheen, 
And clusters of sweet mystery— 

Mysterious rhododendron bells, 
Rare crirasdn rhododendron bells. 

harken— hush ! And lean thy ear. 

Tuned for an elfin melody. 
And tell me now, dost thou not hear 

Those voices of pink mystery — 
Voices of silver-throated bells. 

Of breathing, rhododendron bells ? 



SUNRISE ON THE WILLAMETTE. 

The sun sinks downward thro' the silver mist 
That looms across the valley, fold on fold, 

A.nd sliding thro' the fields that dawn has kissed, 
Willamette sweeps, a chain of liquid gold. 

Trails onward ever, curving as it goes, 
Past many a hill and many a flowered lea, 

Until it pauses where Columbia flows, 

Deep-tongued, deep-chested, to the waiting sea. 



54 Oregon Literature 

lovely vales thro' whicli Willamette slips! 

vine-clad hills that hear its soft voice call ! 
My heart turns ever to those sweet, cool lips 

That, passing, press each rock or grassy wall. 

Thro' pasture lands, where mild-eyed cattle feed, 

Thro' marshy Hats, where velvet tiiles grow. 
Past many a rose tree, many a singing reed, 

1 hear those wet lips calling, calling low. 

The sun sinks downward thro' the trembling haze. 
The mist flings glistening needles high and higher, 

And thro' the clouds— fair beyond all praise! 
Mount Hood leaps, chastened, from a sea of fire. 

THE EYES THAT CANNOT WEEP. 

The saddest eyes are those that cannot weep ; 

The loneliest breast the one that sobbeth not ; 

The lips and mind that are most parched and hot 
Are those that cannot pray, and cannot sleep — 
It is the silent grief that sinketh deep. 

To weep out sorrow .'is the common lot — 

To weep it out and let it be forgot — 
But tears and sobs are after all but cheap, 
We weep for worries, frets and trifling cares, 

For toys we've broken, and for hopes that were. 
And fancied woes of passing love affairs ; 

But only One can ease the breast of her 
Whose hurt for fruitless moans has gone too deen. 
Pity, God, the eyes that cannot weep. 

THE LAMP IN THE WEST. 

Venus has lit her silver lamp 

Low in the purple west. 
Breathing a soft and mellow light 

Upon the sea 's full breast ; 
It is the hour when mead and wood 

In fine seed-pearls are dressed. 



Mrs. Ella Higginson 55 

Far out, far out ;he restless bar 

Starts from a troubled sleep, 
Where roaring thro' the narrow straits 

The meeting waters leap ; 
But still that shining pathway leads 

Across the lonely deep. 

When I sail out the narrow straits 

Where unknown dangers be, 
And cross the troubled, moaning bar 

To the mysterious sea — 
Dear God, wilt thou not set a lamp 

Low in the west for me? 

WHEN THE BIRDS GO NORTH AGAIN. 

Oh, every year hath its winter. 

And every year hath its rain ; 
But a day is always coming 

When the birds go north again. l 

When new leaves swell in the forest. 
And grass springs green on the plain. 

And the alder's veins turn crimson. 
And the birds go north again. 

Oh, every heart hath its sorrow, 

And every heart hath its pain; 
But a day is always coming 

When the birds go north again. 

'Tis the sweetest thing to remember. 

If courage be on the wane, 
When the cold, dark days are over — 
Why, the birds go north again. 

Mrs. Higginson is, however, winning her greatest fame 
as a short-story writer. Her ability in this field of lit' 
erature was recognized in the stories she wrote for the 
Oregon Vidette, which suspended publication some years 
ago. She afterwards won a prize of $500 offered by 



o6 Oregon Literature 

McClure's Magazine for the best short story, "The 
Takin' of Old Mis' Lane," having for her competitors 
many of the best American writers. Since that time her 
stories have appeared in the Century, Harper's Weekly, 
McClure's Magazine, Cosmopolitan, Lippincott's, Frank 
Leslie's Illustrated Weekly, and other leading publica- 
tions of the East. 

These stories of Western life have been published in 
two volumes, "The Forest Orchid" and "The Flower 
That Grew in the Sand," the title of the latter volume 
being subsequently changed by the Macmillans to "The 
Land of the Snow Pearls." Of the author as a story 
writer, the Overland Monthly says : ' ' Her style is strong, 
powerful and realistic. . . . She writes from the heart, 
of the plain, every-day folk she meets, and consequently 
she touches the heart. Her stories are unpretentious 
tales of common people, told simply and naturally, yet 
so vivid and graphic are they, that they charm the reader 
from the first to the last. She is as keen a student of 
human nature as she is a close observer of incident and 
detail, and her sympathetic comprehension of the trials 
and joys, the hardships and the romances of humble, 
hard-working people who constitute her characters, and 
her ability to interpret them with such dramatic power 
and delicacy of touch as to make the commonplace beau- 
tiful, are among the strongest features of her work." 

Of her as a story writer, the Chicago Tribune said: 
"She has shown a breadth of treatment and knowledge 
of human verities that equals much of the best work of 
France." The New York Independent says: "Some of 
the incidents are sketched so vividly and so truthfully 
that persons and things come out of the page as if life 
itself were there." In the Outlook we are told that "she 
is one of the best American short-story writers." From 
Public Opinion we learn that "no Eastern writer can do 
such work better." And the Picayune announces that 
"she writes of the far West with the sympathy of one 
who loves it." 

The following story, ' ' The Isle of the Lepers, ' ' is here 
given as an illustration of her tremendous power in her 
chosen field of literary elf ort : 



Mrs. Ella Higginson 57 

THE ISLE OF THE LEPERS. 

There was an awful beauty on the Gulf of Georgia that 
summer night. It was as if all the golds and scarlets 
and purples of the sunset had been pounded to a fine dust 
and rolled in from the ocean in one great opaline mist. 

The coloring of the sky began in the east with a pale 
green that changed delicately to salmon, and this to rose, 
and the ros^ to crimson— and so on down to the west 
where the sun was sinking into a gulf of scarlet, 
through which all the fires of hell seemed to be pouring 
up their flames and sparks. Long, luminous rays slanted 
through the mist and withdrew swiftly, like searchlights 
— having found all the lovely wooded islands around 
which the burning waves were clasping hands and 
kissing. The little clouds that had journeyed down to 
see what was going on in that scarlet gulf must have 
been successful in their quest, for they were fleeing back 
with the red badge of knowledge on each breast. Only 
the snow-mountains stood aloof, white, untouched— types 
of eternal purity. 

Through all that superb riot of color that heralded 
the storm which was sweeping in from the ocean, moved 
a little boat, with a flapping sail, lazily. In it were a 
man and a woman. The woman, was the wife of the 
man's best friend. 

They had left Vancouver— and all else— behind them 
in the early primrose dawn. Trying to avoid the courses 
of steamers, they had lost their own, and were drifting. 
... In less than an hour the storm was upon them. 
All the magnificent coloring had given place to white- 
edged black. Occasionally a scarlet thread of lightning- 
was cast, crinkling, along the west. Then, in a moment, 
followed the deep fling and roar of the thunder. Fierce 
squalls came t>?aring up the straits where the beautiful 
mist had trembled. 

The little boat went straining and hissing through the 
sea. As each squall struck her the sail bellied to the 
water. There was no laughter now, no love-glow, on 
the faces in that boat ; they were white as death, and 
their eyes were wild. Veins like ropes stood out in the 



58 Oregon Literature 

man's neck and arms, and the woman eonld not speak 
for the violent beating in her throat. She hekl on to 
the tiller with swollen hands and wrenched arms. When 
the boat sank into the black hollows she braced herself 
and looked down into the water, and thought — of many 
things. And through all his agonized thought for the 
woman, the man had other, more terrible thoughts, too. 

Straight ahead of them arose the white, chalky 
shoulder of an island. He realized that he was power- 
less to avoid it. There was one low place, sloping down, 
green, to a beach of sand, but the sharp outlines of rocks 
rose between — and there was no shelter from the wind. 
Still, it was their only chance. That or death. (He 
wished afterward that it had been death.) He braced 
himself and pulled at the ropes until spots of blood 
quivered before his eyes. 

''Port!" he yelled. "Port hard!" But the woman 
gave one gesture of despair; her hands fell from the 
tiller, and she sank in a huddle to the bottom of the boat. 

It seemed but a moment till- the boat struck and they 
were struggling in the waves. But a strip of headland 
now cut off the worst fury of the storm. The water was 
calmer; and, as the man was a powerful swimmer, they, 
after a fierce battle with the waves, reached the shore 
and fell, dumbly, in each other's arms, upon the beach, 
exhausted. . . . 

Suddenly, as they lay there, above the sounds of the 
winds, the waves and the crushing to pieces of their boat 
upon the rocks, another sound was borne to their ears— 
a long, moaning wail that was like a chant of the dead, 
so weird and terrible was it. 

They staggered to their feet. Coming down to them 
from a little row of cabins above were a dozen human 
creatures, the very sight of which filled them with terror. 
Some were without eyes ; others without hands or arms ; 
others were crawling, without feet. And as they ap- 
pioached, they wailed over and over the one word that 
their poor Chinese tongues had been taught to utter : 
' ' Unclean ! Unclean ! Unclean ! ' ' 

Both the man and the woman understood; but the 



Mrs. Ella Higginson 59 

man only spoke. "Great God! It is D'Arey Island!" 
he said, in his throat. ' ' The island of lepers ! ' ' 

The woman did not speak; but she leaned heavily 
upon him. The waves pounded behind them, and the 
firs on the hill above them bowed, moaning, before the 
storm— some never to rise again. And still, above every- 
thing, arose that awful wail— "Unclean! Unclean!" 

The man looked down upon her. Already she seemed 
far, far from him. She had lost everything for him — 
but he was thinking, even now, of what he had lost for 
her. They were stranded upon an island whereon there 
was no human being save the lepers placed there by the 
British Government — an island at which steamers never 
landed, and from which escape was impossible, unless 
they signaled. . . . (And these two dared not signal.) 
. . . For lepers there are only silence and opium— and 
death. 

His voice shook when he spoke again. 

"What accursed luck— what damnable luck— steered 
us here ! " he cried, bitterly. 

Then the woman spoke, lifting herself from him and 
standing alone. 

"It was not luck at all," she said, steadily; "it was 
God." 

Then, suddenly, she cast all her trembling, beau I if ul 
length downward and. lay prone, her face sunken to the 
wet sand. And lying so, she clasped her hands hard, 
hard, behind her neck, and cried out in a voice that lifted 
each word, clear and distinct, above the storm— so deep, 
so terrible was it with all passion, all submission, all 
despair — the most sublime prayer ever uttered by 
woman: "Oh Thou God— Who hast guided us two to 
the one spot on earth where we belong ! I see ! I under- 
stand. Oh, Thou awful God— Thou just God!" 

The lepers, crawling back to their hovels, left those 
two alone, but their weird wail still sank through the 
falling darkness — " Unclean ! Unclean ! ' ' 

Mrs. Higginson 's latest publication is "Mariella," a 
further study of the Northwest she knows so thoroughly, 
and whose atmosphere she interprets so vividly in all its 



60 Oregon Literature 

fresh, even crude, youth. A critic says tlie scenes are 
laid in the early pioneer days at first and later during 
the boom of 1888-9. It is the story of a young girl's 
development in the hard frontier farming life; in the 
forced social changes and evolutions following the 
"boom"; and in the offered choice between men of 
different social standing who love her. The feeling for 
nature in its special local characteristics, so notable in 
her stories, is fresh and strong, resulting in charming 
descriptive touches, among pages full of social insight 
and keen wit. It is Mrs. Higginson's first novel and is 
by far her most important and mature work. Simultan- 
eous with this publication will appear three new editions 
of books already written by Mrs. Higgmson, attesting 
the popularity of her productions in poety and prose. 
Furthermore, Mrs. Higginson's poems are in great de- 
mand with musical composers, the most prominent of 
whom are Horatio Parker, professor of the theory of 
music in Yale University ; Whitney Combs, of New York, 
and Charles AVilleby, of London, where the leading 
English contralto, Ada Crossley, has taken them up and 
made a notable success of them. 




Sam. L. Simpson 

Sam. L. Simpson was born October 10, 1845, in the 
State of IMissoiiri. His parents, Hon. Ben. Simpson and 
Nancy Cooper Simpson, started soon thereafter for 
Oregon, where they arrived in the spring; of 1846. Omit- 
ting; the earlier period of Simpson's eventful life, we 
note the first lessons in his educational career, when his 
mother taught him, at the age of four years, his letters, 
by making them in the ashes upon the broad hearthstone 
of their pioneer home on the C]ackamas River. 

His childhood passed through the usual humdrum of 
pioneer life, which he has commemorated bv one short 
poem entitled the "Winding Path to the Country 
School." During his earlier "teens" he was clerk for 
his father in the sutler's store, on the Crande Ronde 
Reservation, where he met and ber-nme the flattered and 
petted companion of Grant. Sheridan, and other lesser 
personages of a frontier military r>ost. The latter gentle- 
man presented him with a copv of Byron's poems, which 
he esteemed very highly, and to which, no doubt, is 
attributablp the similaritv of stvle so noticeable in many 
of Simpson's poems to those of Byron. 

Indeed, the complaining moods of Byron are very con- 
spicuous in Simpson's verses. It is probable that the 
contact of this brilliant boy with the careless ways of a 
frontier garrison was the ini+iative of a life, subse- 
quently, so frauffht with grief and disappointment. 
From the Reservation he went to the Willamette Univer- 
sity, at Salem, where he srraduated with honors in the 
class of '65. He was noted for versifying among his 
college associates, and besran about this time to con- 
tribute to newspapers of the state. 

In 1866 he was prepared to be admitted to the bar, 
but owing to his age he was not admitted to nractice until 
'67. This year was a noted epoch in Simpson's life. He 
wrote "Ad Willametam," now known as "The Beautiful 



62 Oregon Literature 

Willamette," in the sprincr of 1867, and the Democrat, 
of Albany, upon publishing the poem, remarked that 
the young author might be expected to do something 
meritorious. 

In the fall of '67 Simpson was married to Miss Julia 
Humphrey, a lady noted for her beauty and accomplish- 
ments, not the least of which was her enrapturing voice 
for song. She was Simpson 's * ' Sweet Throated Thrush, ' ' 
his * ' Lurlina ' ' of whom he writes : 

Heaven flies not 

From souls it once hath blessed. 
First love may fade hut dies not 
Though wounded and distressed. 

To the end of his life he was constant in his adoration 
of his ''First Love." 

After his marriage he associated with the late Judge 
R. S. Strahan in the practice of law, and these years 
were the happiest that mortals ever experience. He 
soon, however, from that uncontrollable impulse, betook 
himself to journalism, which he pursued until he died, 
in 1900. 

Judge John Burnett, who read law with him, said, 
"Simpson is the Burns of Oregon. What Poe was to 
the beginning, Simpson was to the close of the century. 
The first singer of Oregon — the preparer of the way." 
Truly it may be said, he added to his ideal beauty of 
conception of nature, ever true, a classical expression 
and descriptive power seldom equalled, if ever excelled. 
His soul was set to music. The morning stars sang to 
him as sublime a hymn of adoration of the Creator as 
to the seers of ages past. The sea had for him a voice 
enrapturing beyond the appreciation of less inspired 
beings. Flo win sr waters had to him "Manv things to 
sing and sav." "The Beautiful WillameUe" is full of 
that melaneholy music of flowing waters, so aptly de- 
scriptive of the same stream in another poem, where 
he says: 

Tt civps vou back the minor key 

That thrills in music's sweetest lines 

The mystery of minstrelsy. ', ' 



Sam. L. Simpson 63 

His imagination interpreted the deep and mournful 
music of the forest— 

"I hear sweet music over there. 

The mountain nymphs are calling me," 

He murmured, "How divine an air 
O soul of mine is wooing- thee." 

Or swept by winter's storm these forests had a differ- 
ent voice for him — 

The Gothic minstrel of the woods, 

'He sings the lightest lullaby. 
Or. swept "by winter's fitful moods 

The "battle chants, and loud and high 
The Pyrrhic nuni'bers rise and roll 

To midnight stars, and Earth's great soul 
Wails in the solemn interludes 

Of death and woe that never die. 

The shriek of ships, the war of waves. 

The fury of the 'blanching surge — 
The desolation of lone graves — 

The shouts that still the onset urge — 
The sohs of maidens in despair — 

All saddest sounds of earth and air — 
The harp of Thor o'er peaks and caves. 

Blend in the paean and the dirge. 

Maybe it was an inhprpnt quality of his soul, or maybp 
environment, but in all Simpson's work we note the sad 
undertone— "The wail in mirth's mad lav." "Tho Sad 
Refrain" of love. "The thorn benfath the rose" that 
seemed to have pierced his heart. This thought is forci- 
bly expressed in the following lines: 

The breath of immortality 

But withers human thought, we love 

The summer smouldering on the lea, 
The mournful deathsong of the dove. 

This idea seems to have become such as passion that 
he exclaims — 

The divinest pleasures arise and soar 
On win-gs that are sorrow laden. 



64 Oregon Literaiure 

Simpson's nature was the essence of love of all thinpfs 
good and beantifnl, gloomed by a sorrow-laden life, but 
with an abiding faith in the great hereafter. Hear the 
conclusion : 

O when the ang^el of silence has 'brushed 
Me with his win'prs and this pininsr is hushed; 
Tenderly. p;raciously) light as the snow 
Fall the kind mention of all that I know; 
Words that will cover and whiten the sod. 
Folding- the life that was given of God; 
Wayward, maybe, and persistent to rove. 
Restful, at last, in the glamour of love. 



THE BEAUTIFUL WILLAMETTE. 

Of the origin of "The Beautiful WillameHe," Mr. C. 
H. Sox, of Albany, Oregon, has written : 

It was during Sam. L. Simpson's residence at Albany. 
Oregon, that he wrote "Ad Willametam" (''Beautiful Willam- 
ette"), the grandest and prettiest of his poems, and it was my 
good fortune to first put this poem into type from the original 
manuscript. It was printed in the Democrat, Anril i8 1868: 
The editor had this to say of it: "The original poetry, under 
the title of 'Ad Willametam,' to be found elsewhere in today's 
Democrat, signed by IS. 'L. S.. we consider a very beautiful 
poem, and we trust the author will not let this lie the last 
time he will favor us with his literary productions." 

After the appearance of this poem in the Democrat, the 
entire press of the state printed it; the leading California 
papers then took it up. and shortly afterwards it appeared in 
many Eastern publications, and was hjghly praised everywhere. 

Simpson was a young man at that time, temperate, un- 
married, in fact just out of college, and the poem was written 
in the seclusion of his own private apartments. I kept the 
manuscript of the poem for several years, 'but it 'became mis- 
placed and lost. 

From the Cascades' frozen gorges. 

Leaping like a child at play, 
Windiuir, widening through the valley 
Bright Willamette glides away. 
Onward ever, 
Lovely river, 



Sam. L. Simpson 65 

Softly calling to the sea ; 

Time, that scars us, 

Maims and mars us, 
Leaves no track or trench on thee. 

Spring's green witchery is weaving 

Braid and border for thy side; 
Grace forever haunts thy journey, 

Beauty dimples on thy tide ; 
Through the purple gates of morning, 

Now thy roseate ripples dance. 
Golden then, when day, departing, 

On thy waters trails his lance. 
(Notice tiie music of the old song.) 
Waltzing, flashing. 
Tinkling, splashing, 
Limid, volatile, and free- 
Always hurried 
To be buried 
In the bitter, moon-mad sea. 

In thy crystal deeps inverted 

Swings a picture of the sky. 
Like those wavering hopes of Aidenn, 

Dimly in our dreams that lie; 
Clouded often, drowned in turmoil. 

Faint and lovely, far away- 
Wreathing sunshine on the morrow% 
Breathing fragrance round today. 
Love would wander 
Here and ponder, 
Hither poetry would dream: 
Life's old questions. 
Sad suggestions, 
''Whence and w^hither?" throng thy streams. 

On the roaring waste of ocean 

Soon thy scattered waves shall toss, 

'Mid the surges' rhythmic thunder 
Shall thy silver tongues be lost. 



66 Oregon Literature 

Oh ! thy *rliminerinj? rush of gladness 

Mocks this turbid life of mine, 
Racing to the wild Forever 

Down the sloping paths of Time. 

Onward ever, 

Lovely river, 
Softly calling to the sea; 

Time, that scars us, 

Maims and mars us, 
Leaves no track or trench on thee. 



ONLY A FEATHER. 

There is never a rose in the green garden blows 

Tn the time of the dreamiest weather 
That enkindles my heart till in rapture it glows 

As the flame of this dear little feather. 
It is crimson, you see, and so many there be 

That may rival its aniline luster. 
It is strange that it weaves such a spell upon me, 

As the redolent memories cluster. 

The philosophers read any secret at need. 

And restore a dead field from a flower. 
Or a forest with banners from one withered seed. 

That has slept in a fossilized bower ; 
And they'd tell me today, from this tremulous spray, 

This endeared and adorable feather. 
Of a Romanized warbler that wore it one day 

When the sun-birds were singing together. 

And I'd nod, and I'd smile, but I'd know all the while 

They were lost in a tangle of fable; 
There was never a bird in a palm-crested isle 

That the orient fairies called Mabel ; 
And there's no bird that roves in the pomegranate groves, 

Or savannas of villas suburban. 
That displays such a plume, as it gracefully moves 

In a dainty Parisian turban. 



Sam. L. Simpso)! 67 

And from tip unto tip, with a pause at her lip, 

It is useless to tell you the measure 
Of the sweet-throated thrush that allured me to sip 

The delight of the chalice of pleasure-. 
For the years, as they flow, have a cadence of woe 

That my heart was bowed down to discover. 
Since she moulted this plume many summers ago. 

As she leaned on the breast of her lover. 

Oh, the myrtle-sweet days, how they throng *o my gaze 

In a crimsoning vista of roses. 
And the light of romance reverentially plays 

O'er the scene that my fancy discloses ; 
For my sweetheart is there on the glimmering square, 

Where the school girls a"^ evening are trooping. 
And her wavering plume, like a flame in the air. 

Is gracefully swaying and drooping. 

Ah, well, it is right that I sorrow tonight, 

And I kneel to the fate that is given. 
For the .joy of that time, like Prome'hean light, 

Was purloined from the treasure of heaven : 
It is well that I moan for the day that is gone. 

For my life is astray altogether. 
And the dreams of my summer like swallows have flown. 

And left this memorial feather. 



THE CROWNING OF THE SLAIN. 

I. 

Again, in the month of beauty. 

When the blush of the rose is born. 
In the kiss which the earth, at robing. 

Receives on the bridal morn, 
We think of the heroes that slumber. 

Away from the light of the sun. 
Where the banners of forests are waving, 

ApA the musical rivers run, 



68 Oregon Literature 

II. 

The white tented mists in the valley. 

Pass dreamily on at dawn, 
And the rustling' of feet in the greenwood, 

Is made by the rabbit and fawn ; 
It is only the glint of a plowshare, 

As it tnrns in yon distant field, 
And never the bayonet-glimmer 

By a wheeling rank revealed, 

III. 

The days, among pearls and lilies, • 

Awake with a smile of peace, 
And pass— reclining at sunset 

On a glory of golden fleece; 
But never a war-drum startles, 

And never the cannon roar— 
Nor the_angel of battle passes 

With brows that are red with gore. 

IV. 

The flowers have come, in a splendor 

Of color and perfect perfume. 
The birds build again in their branches. 

And the honey-bee rifles the bloom — 
The loving and loved, in the gloaming. 

And, oft, by the silvery beam. 
Are plucking the roses of Eden, 

And dreaming the beautiful dream; 



But the strong hands folded from battle 

Will nevermore toil nor caress— 
The roses return, but the soldier 

Sleeps on in his patriot dress. 
His name and his deeds are forgotten. 

His sword in its scabbard will rust. 
But the sunshine is brighter above him. 

And the olive will spring from his dust. 



Sam. L. Simpson 69 

VI. 

Ah, God ! in our banners of crimson. 

How cling the crape shadows of grief— 

How close to the palm and the laurel 
Is the funeral cypress leaf? 

And 'tis well that we cherish our martyrs- 
Else the triumph might seem too dear 

That gave back a country unbroken. 
But left us no heart for a tear. 

VII. 

And so, in the month of beauty. 

When the sea and the sky are blue, 
And we love more tender, 

And are true with a heart more true— 
uet us gather the flowers in clusters, 

And weave them in chaplets fair. 
And, wherever a soldier slumbers, 

To his low grave side repair. 

VIII. 

For this is the month of beauty. 

When the sea and the sky are true — 
A time to be tenderly thoughtful 

Of those that have worn the blue. 
And who sleep away from the sunshine 

In their low and lonesome graves, 
While ever, on land and ocean, 

The dauntless banner waves. 

IX. 

And what shall we bring, but flowers. 

To hallow the heroes' sleep— 
These gifts of the dew and the daylight 

That ever memorial keep 
Of the spirit immortal — and ever 

In bursting the mold of death 
Renew the perishing garlands 

On the shadowy brow of Faith ! 



70 Oregon Literature 

THE MYSTIC RIVER. 

[This poem was composed at the request of Miss Ellen 
Chamberlin.) 

(Tune, Cantilena.) 
I. 

Beside the mystic river. 

At holy even fall, 
Where golden lilies quiver, 

And reedy murniurs eall— " 
We pause, dean hearts, at starting, 

pjach leaning on his oar. 
And never knew till parting, 

How beautiful the shore ! 

Chorus— 

Touch hands with love, 

Touch lips with tears — 
The golden lilies chime, 

And call us to the river, 
And down the tide of time. 

II. 

The brow of Alma Mater 

Ne'er shone with such a light. 
And O we know that later. 

When tempests come, and night. 
That light, forever shining 

Along life's troubled main. 
Will cheer us, though repining 

In darkness and in pain. 
CJiorus — 

III. 

The stars march on — the gleaming 

Of every diamond crest, 
And white plume dimly streaming 

Above the world's unrest— 



Sam. L. Simpson 71 

Tell ns the martial story 

That rules the realm of space— 
The combat and the glory- 
Heroic lives may face, 
Cliorits— 

IV. 

The last word must be spoken, 

The last song must be sung— 
Yet we give no token 

Of how our hearts are wrung, 
As here, beside the river, 

We lean, and look, and sigh. 
And on our faint lips quiver 

The long, long words, "Good bye!" 
Chorus — 



SNOW-DRIFT. 

I. 

Tenderly, patiently falling, the snow 
Whitens the gleaming, and in the street glow 
Spectrally beautiful, drifts to the earth- 
Pale, in life's brightness, and still, in its mirth: 
Swarming and settling like spirits of bees 
Blown from the blossoms of song-haunted trees — 
Blown with the petals of dreams we have grown 
Rosy with heart-dews in days that are gone. 

II. 

Spirits of flowers and spectres of bees — 
Beauty and soil — is 't an emblem of these 
Thrown to us silently — cold and so fair — 
Treasure we piled in the mansions of air? 
Just as if heaven, that gathered our sighs, 
AVept for the hope that the future denies, 
Dreamingly lifted the glowing' bouquet. 
Bright from earth's garden, and tossed it awav! 



'72 Oregon LitcrniiU'C 

III. 

Soft as the touch of the white-handed moon, 
Waking the world in a twilight of June, 
Gently and lovingly hastens the snow— 
Weaving a veil for dead nature below ; 
Kissing the stains from the hoof-beaten street. 
Folding the town in a slumber so sweet — 
Surely the stars, in their helmets of gold, 
Patient must linger and love to behold. 

IV. 

Thus our endeavor may fail of its "prize — 
Hope and ambition drop cold from our skies ; 
Yet on the pathway so lonely and sere, 
Rugged with failure, and clouded by fear. 
Spirits of beauty come out of defeat, 
Cover life's sorrows, and shield its retreat- 
Healing the heart as the fall of the snow 
Mantles the darkness of winter below. 

V. 

0, when the Angel of Silence has brushed 
Me with his wing, and this pining is hushed, 
Tenderly, graciously, light as the snow. 
Fall the kind mention of all that I know- 
Words that will cover and whiten the sod 
Folding the life that was given of God; 
Broken, may be, and persistent to rove- 
Restful, at last, in the glamour of love. 

THE FEAST OF APPLE BLOOM. 
I. 

When the sky is a dream of violet 
And the days are rich with gold. 

And the satin robe of Ihe earth is set 
With the jewels wrought of old ; 



Sam. L. Simpson 73 

When the woodlands wave in coral seas 

And the purple mountains loom, 
It is heaven to come, with birds and bees, 

To the feast of apple bloom. 

II. 

For the gabled roof of home arose 

'er the sheen of the orchard snow, 
And is still my shrine, when storms repose 

And the gnarly branches blow ; 
And the music of childhood's singing heart, 

That was lost in the backward gloom. 
May be heard when the robins meet and part 

At the feast of apple bloom. 

III. 

And I think when the trees display a crow^n 

Like the gleam of a resting dove, 
Of a face that was framed in tresses brown 

And aglow with a mother's love; 
At the end of the orchard path she stands, 

And I laugh at my manhood's doom 
As my spirit flies, with lifted hands, 

To the feast of apple bloom. 

IV. 

When the rainbow paths of faded skies 

Are restored with the diamond rain. 
And the joys of my wasted paradise 

Are returning to earth again, 
It is sadder than death to know how brief 

Are the smiles that the dead assume ; 
But a moment allowed, a flying leaf 

From the feast of apple bloom. 

V. 

But a golden arch forever shines 

In the dim and darkening past, 
Where I stand again, as day declines. 

And the world is bright and vast; 



74 Oregnn Literature 

For the glory that lies alonfj the lane 

Is endeared with sweet perfume, 
And the w^orld is ours, and we are twain 

At the feast of apple hloom. 

VI. 

She was more than fair in the wreath she wore 

Of the creamy buds and blows 
And she comes to me from the speechless shore 

When the flowering' orchard grows; 
And I sigh for the dreams so sweet and swift, 

That are laid in a sacred tomb — 
Yet are nothing at last but fragrant drift 

From the feast of apple bloom. 

THE NYMPHS OF THE CASCADES. 

Dedicated to the memory of George E. Strong-, a brilliant 
young journalist, formerly of the Oregonian stafT. who, imag- 
ing that he heard beautiful strains of music and sweet voices 
calling him, wandered away from a camp in the Cascade Moun- 
tains while his companions were sleeping and was utterly lost, 
no trace of him, dead or alivev having ever 'been found. 

The camp fire, like a red night rose. 

Blossomed beneath a gloomy fir; 
When weary men in deep repose. 

Heard not the gentU' night wind stir. 
The priestly robes high over head — 

Heard not the wild ])rook's wailing song. 
Nor any nameless soitnds of dread. 

Which to the midnight woods belong. 

The moon sailed on a golden bark. 

Astray in lilied purple seas; 
And forest shadows weirdly dark, 

M^ere peopled with all mysteries; 
And all was wild and drear and strange 

Around that lonely l)ivouac. 
Where mountains, rising range on range 

Shouldered the marcli of progress back. 



Sam,. L. Simpson 75 

The red fire 's fluttering tongues of flame, 

WhisDered to brooding darkness there, 
And spectral shapes without a name 

Were hovering in the haunted air; 
And from the fir tree's inner shade, 

A drear owl, sobbing forth his rune 
Kept watch and mournful homage paid 

At intervals unto the moon. 

The travelers dreamed on serene, 

Save one, whose brow, curl-swept. 
Was damp from agony within ; 

Who tossed and murmured as he slept. 
The fretful fire-light on his face. 

Wavered and danced in fitful play. 
Until the old enchanting grace 

Of young aimbition on it lay. 

The glamour of the rosy light 

The heavy lines concealed. 
And trembling shadows of the night 

Beyond him, like sad spirits, kneeled ; 
For his had been the lustress gift — 

Of genius lent by God to few. 
The splendid jewel wrought by swift 

Angelic art of fire and dew. 

But like the pearl of Egypt's queen, 

'Twas drowned in pleasure's crimson cup. 
And lo, its amethystine sheen, 

In baleful vapors curling up. 
Soon wreathed his brain in that dark spell, 

That has no kindred seal of woe ; 
And phantoms that with Oreus dwell, 

In mystic dance swept to and fro. 

Swept to and fro and maddened him 

With gestures wild and taunts and jeers. 

And waved the withered chaplets dim 
That he had worn in flowery years ; 



76 Oregon Literature 

His spirit furled its shining wings, 
Never again to sing and soar, 

And wove all wild imaginings 
In shapes of horror evermore. 

The sleeper started, partly raised 

Upon his elbow, leaned awhile. 
And deep into the darkness gazed 

With wistful eyes and brightened smile : 
"I hear sweet music over there, 

The mountain nymphs are calling me." 
He murmured, "How divine an air, 

Oh, soul of mine, is wooing thee." 

"Coming!" he whispered, and arose. 

And in the air first reached a hand, 
To clasp a spirit? No one knows. 

Or where he stood can ever stand— 
And lo, into the heavy night, 

As led by hands unseen, he fled, 
A startling figure, clad in white 

Into the canyons dark and dread. 

'Twas years ago, but trace or track 

Of him has never yet been found. 
For echo only answered back 

The hunter's call and baying hound; 
Forever lost, untracked, unseen. 

In the upheaved and wild Cascades, 
Forever lost, untracked, unseen, 

A shadow now among the shades. 

From some snow-wreathed and shining peak 

His soul swam starward long ago. 
And now no more we vainly seek, 

The secret of his fate to know. 
While fires of sunset and of dawn 

Flame red and fade on many a height. 
The myst'ry will not be withdrawn 

From him, long lost from human sight. 



Sam. L. Simpson 77 

And yet I sometimes sit and dream 

Of him, my schoolmate and my friend, 
As wandering where briglit waters gleam, 

;In some sweet life that has no end- 
Within the Cascades' inner walls. 

Where nymphs, beyond all fancy fair, 
Soothe him with siren madrigals. 

And deck him with their golden hair. 



TONIGHT. 
DECEMBER 24, 1877. 

When the stars gather in splendor, tonight. 

Darkness, Planet, will cover thy face— 
Death-ridden darkness, in shapes that affright. 

Black with the curses that blacken our race! 
And the mist, like the ghost 
Of a hope that is lost. 

Strangely will hover o'er fields that are bare 
And the seas, at whose heart the old sorrow is throbbing- 
Restless and hopeless, eternally sobbing— 

Madly will kneel in a tempest of prayer. 

When the stars gather in armor, tonight. 

Planet of w^ailing. thy fate shall be read ! 
Steal like a nnn neath the scourge from their sight. 

Gather thy sorrows, like robes, to thy head ! 
For the vestal white rose 
Of the crystalline snows 

Coldly has sealed thee to silence unblessed : 
And the red rose is dead in thy gardens of pleasure- 
Forests, like princes, bereft of all treasure 

Rise and uDbraid thee, a skeleton jest ! 

When the stars gather in vengeance, tonight. 

Gibbering history, too, will arise. 
Rustling her garments of mildew and blight. 
Only to curse thee. mother of lies ! 
With thy goblet all drained. 
And thy w^anton lip stained— 



78 Oregon LUfmiure 

Singing wild songs where all ruin appears — 
What, shall thou say of this dust thai was glory. 
Dust that beseeches thee still with a story. 

Deep in whose silence are rivers of tears! 

When the stars gather in chorus, tonight, 

Ringing the hillaby song of our Lord, 
Childhood shall come to us, dimpled and bright, 

Kissed by His promise, and fed by His word; 
And our fears shall depart, 
And our anguish of heart. 

Rending us darkly the lengthy years thro'; 
And the dust of the perished shall blossom, and beauty 
Garland the lowliest pathway of duty. 

Rich with the hopes that qwy spir-its renew. 




SIMPSON'S 
"BEAUTIFUL WILLAMETTE' 



WITH 



ILLUSTRATIONS. 







SS 



SS c o 

K-1.0-' 
^£ 
£ til] 
■ox 
.ECQ 

5^ 



- S ta 



C O 

.c <u g (d 




o >_ c c 
.^ <o 3- 



CO O 




2^ <vs 

O c ♦-• 

93 1- oi (S 
j=£ ^ >. 

O Ot3 c 

H a 






73 ~ 








< ■-£ 


t/5 


/erted 
the sk 
opes 
they 1 
d in tu 


< 


•-r°-^§ 




a P.S 0) o 




"U -1 ^ J:; ^ 
aj 3 <uT3-a 




1- 


_'q 5 3 c 
nj a o CD 


U 


^ 


cryst 
ngs a 
hose 

ly in 
edoft 


< 




5r> ■" fc T3 
£(^55 g 


3t 




£ J o 







O C i- 

— 3 

5 hi.E 

"J c ^ 




ro "-> "» 



cd to -J 






nj >. 3 >. 
ox: i/)£ 

ID Cj: = 
£; o-tJ Id 

O 2 




c 
Si c 



^3i V ta 



S2 ' 

T !-■- a 

<U 3 5 O 

- o.S o 
O K 



<u 
> 


OJ 


O 


n3 


E 
■n 


o 


■a 


- 


bu 




c 
cd 


2 


c 


<D 


o 


E 


E 

5 


o 

c 


OJ^HS 


> 





JAMES G. CLARKE 



James G. Clarke 

Miss Loona Sinitli says: " 'Poetry and Song,' Avritten 
by James G. Clarke, for many years a resident of Grants 
Pass, Oretron, does not possess all the elements necessary 
to world-wide renoAvn, but it will undoubtedly continue 
to be an inspiration to many throughout this Nation. 
The poems have a sweet, soft, sad melody which reveal 
to us the suffering of the author. They are not the 
hopeless longings of a soul unsatisfied, but they are the 
expression of one who is sure of a place in his Father's 
home. He even fancies that — 

He catches the s^eet strains of songs 
Floating down from distant throngs 
And can feel the touch of hands 
Reaching out from angel (bands. 

"Purity is one of the prominent traits of his writings. 
He wrote some very tender love poems, bu^ they are all 
on the strain of 'I cannot live without you.' Many of 
his poems are of childhood; in one he says: 

Friends of my childhood 
Tender and loving, 

Scattered like leaves over a desolate plain; 
Dreams of childhood, where are you roving, 

Never to gladden my pathway of pain. 

"The poem 'Look Up* is representative of his work; 
it is — 

Look up, look up, desponding soul! 

The clouds are only seeming, 
The light behind the darkening scroll 

Eternally is beaming. 

There is no death, there is no night, 

No life nor day declining. 
Beyond the day's departing light, 

The sun is always shining. 



80 Oregon Literature 

Could wc but pierce the rolling storms 

That veil the pathway southward, 
We'd see a host of shining- forms 

Forever looking onward. 

" 'The Mount of the Holy Cross,' which is numbered 
among American classics, is his greatest poem." 

THE MOUNT OF THE HOLY CROSS. 

The Mount of the Holy Cross, the principal mountain of the 
Saguache iRan-ge, Colorado, is 14,176 feet a^bove tide-water. 
The Cross is located near the top, facing the east, and consists 
of two crevices filled with snow summer and winter. The 
crevices are a'bout fifty feet wide, and the snow in them from 
fifty to one hundred feet in depth. The perpendicular arm 
of the Cross is some fifteen hundred feet long, and the hori- 
zontal arm seven hundred feet. The Cross may be seen at a 
distance of thirty or forty miles. 

The ocean divided, the land struggled through, 

And a newly-born continent burst into view; 

Like furrows upturned by the plowshare of r4od. 

The mountain chains rose where the billows had trod ; 

And tlieir towering summits, in mighty array. 

Turned their terrible brows to the glare of the day. 

Like sentinels guarding the gateway of Time, 

Lest the contact with mortals should stain it with crime. 

The ocean was vanquished, the new world was born. 
The headlands flung back the bold challenfre of morn ; 
The sun from the trembling sea marshalled the mist 
Till the hills by the soul of the ocean were kissed ; 
And the Winter-king reached from his cloud-castlerl 

height 
To hang on each brow the first garland of white; 
For the crystals came forth at the touch of his wand. 
And the soul of the sea ruled again on the land. 

Then arose the loud moan of the desolate tide. 
As it called back its own from the far mountain side : 
' ' O soul of my soul ! by the sun led astray, 
Return to the heart that would hold thee alway; 



James G. Clarke Si 

The Sim and the silver moon woo me in vain ; 
By day and by night. I am sobbing with pain ; 
Oh, loved of my bosom ! Oh, child of the Free, 
Come back to the lips that are waiting for thee!*^' 

But a sound, like all melodies mingled in one, 

Came down through the spaces that cradled the sun. 

I;ike music from far-distant planets it fell. 

Till earth, air, and ocean were hushed in the spell: 

"Be> silent, ye waters, and cease your alarm, 

All motion is only the pulse of my arm; 

In my breath the vast systems unerringly swing. 

And mine is the chorus the morning stars sing. 

'^ 'Twas mine to create them, 'tis mine to command 

The land to the ocean, the sea to the land; 

All, all are ray creatures, and they who would give 

True worship to me for each other must live. 

Lo ! I leave on the mountain a sign that shall be 

A type of the union of land and sea — 

An emblem of anguish that comes before bliss. 

For they who would conquer must conquer by this." 

The roar of the earthquake in answer was heard, 
The land from its solid foundation was stirred, 
The breast of the mountain was rent by the shock. 
And a cross was revealed on the heart of the rock; 
One hand pointing south, where the tropic gales blow, 
And one to the kingdom of winter and snow. 
While its face turned to welcome the dawn from afar. 
Ere Jordan had rolled under Bethlehem's star. 

The harp of the elements over it swung, 

In the wild chimes of Nature its advent was rung, 

Around it the hair of the Winter-king curled. 

Against it in fury his lances were hurled, 

And the pulse of the hurricane beat in its face 

Till the snows were locked deep in its mighty embrace. 

And its arms were outstretched on the mountain's cold 

breast. 
As spotless and white as the robes of the blest. 



82 Orcgo)! Literature 

Then tlie spii-it of Simmier caine up fi'oin the south 
With the smile of the Junes on her heautiful mouth, 
And breathed on the vaUey, the phiins, and the hills, 
While the snow rippled home in the arms of the rills ; 
The winter was gone, but the symbol was there, 
Towering mutely and grand, like the angel of prayer, 
Where the morning shall stream on the place of its birth 
Till the last cross is borne by the toilers of earth. 

It will never grow old while the sea breath is drawn 
From the lips of the billows at evening and dawn. 
While heaven's pure finger transfigures the dews, 
And with garlands of frost-work its beauty renews ; 
It was there when the blocks of the pyramid pile 
Were drifting in sands on the plains of the Nile, 
And it still shall point homeward, a token of trust, 
When pyramids crumble in dimness and dust. 

It shall lean o'er the world like a banner of peace 
Till discord and war between brothers shall cease, 
Till the Red Sea of Time shall be cleansed of its gore, 
And the years like white pebbles be washed to the shore ; 
As long as the incense from the ocean shall rise 
To weave its bright woof on the warp of the skies, 
As long as the clouds into crystals shall part. 
That cross shall gleam high on the continent's heart. 






mH 




^ 






A"-*^! 


11 






^K.'. 'J 


% 1 


1 




^il 


M 


Tt%^ 


^H 


B 


^1 ^^ 




MRS. 


EVA EMERY DYE 





Mrs. Eva Emery Dye 

The Land of Sunshine, of Los Angeles, says: 
"Eva Emery Dye, whose strong book, 'McLoughlin 
and Old Oregon,' has been warmly commended, was born 
in Prophetstown, Illinois, of New England ancestry. 
There in the historic haunts of Black Hawk, she turned 
even as a child to Ihe fascination of the past. Graduat- 
ing from Oberlin College in 1882 she married a class- 
mate, Charles Henry Dye, of Fort Madison, Iowa ; and 
in 1890 they removed to Oregon City, Oregon. The 
wealth of history and romance in that unharried field 
appealed strongly to Mrs. Dye ; and she plunged at once 
into ardent cross-examination of the pioneers and pioneer 
times of the far Northwest. 'Old Oregon' is still new 
enough so that contemporaries of the first heroes still 
survive. It is not, like California, two long lifetimes 
back to the historic beginnings; or New Mexico with 
more than three centuries and a half of his^^ory. And 
even as it is scant in the documentary treasures of which 
the older West has such marvelous— though recondite- 
store, it is richer in the human parchments. And here 
was Mrs. Dye's bonanza. She has foregathered with 
these tottering chronicles, and gathered from them their 
reminiscences. White-headed men and women have told 
her of the migrations of the early 'Forties ; missionaries 
of the 'Thirties have gone over with her the times that 
tried men's souls; and still further back, the old voya- 
geurs and fur-traders of the Hudson's Bay Company 
have given her their eye-witness versions of that Homeric 
day. Even the Indian— one of the most vital and com- 
petent of witnesses, when one knows how to get at him — 
has not been forgotten in Mrs. Dye's eager research; 
and every old book, document or letter that she could 
lay her hands upon was as earnestly devoured. 

"The result is in evidence. 'McLoughlin and Old 
Oregon' is one of the best Western books in its sort— 



84 Oregon LHcraiure 

and a good sort. Taking it in conjunction with Cones 's 
critical 'Larpentenr, ' one may have an excellently clear 
concept of the old Northwest, and of that most romantic 
corporation in hnman history, the Hudson's Bay Com- 
pany, in all its gallan^y and all its meanness. Mrs. 
Dye's home is in Oregon City, Oregon." 

Mrs. Dye's book, now in press, is to be called "The 
Conquest: The True Story of Lewis and Clarke," and 
deals with the great middle West movement ending with 
the Expedition of Lewis and Clarke that brought, the 
United States under our dominion. An edition of 15,000 
copies is now in press, with A. C. McClurg & Co., Chi- 
cago, to be out in November. The frontispiece is 
"Judith," the girl for whom Clarke named the River 
Judith in Montana and whom he afterward married. 
The incident of their courtship and marriage forms a 
romantic feature of the book; the special heroine of the 
expedition itself is Sacajawea. the beautiful Shoshone 
Indian girl who piloted Lewis and Clarke through the 
mountains and spent the winter with them at Fort 
Clatsop by the Oregon sea. Sacajawea's husband, 
Charboneau, was interpreter and voyageur. In this 
book Mrs. Dye has made use of many interesting and 
valuable traditions preserved by the Western Indians 
concerning these marvelous first Avhite men that came 
to them out of the East. 

JO LANE AND THE INDIANS. 

Table Rock is a flat-topped mountain overhanging 
Rogue River, in Southern Oregon. From this watch- 
tower, sweeping the valley for miles, the Indians noted 
incoming immigrants and the movements of gold-seekers. 
Thus, with accurate knowledge of their strength and 
movements, the Indians could swoop down with unerring 
aim and annihilate whole encampments. They became 
expert robbers, bandits of as wild exploits as any ever 
celebrated in song or story. Strangers entering the 
lovely valley ( f the Rogue little imagined that pictur- 
esque peak of the Tjd)le Rock sheltered the deadliest foe 
of settlement and of civilization. 



Mrs. Eva Emery Dye 85 

In the days of the gold rush, large companies passed 
in comparative safety, but many a straggler, many a 
group of three or four, went out never to return. 

In the spring of 1850, Governor Jo Lane, the "Marion 
of the Mexican War," decided to go down and quiet 
those Indian banditti. With an escort of fifteen men, a 
pack-train bound for the mines, and a few friendly 
Klickitats— born foes of the Rogue Rivers— he made a 
descent on their country. Camping near some Indian 
villages. General Lane sent word to the principal chief, 
"I want a 'peace talk.' Come unarmed." 

The chief and seventy-five followers came and sat in 
a ring on the grass around the Ilyas Tyee of the whites. 
Lane very fiatteringly and with great ado brought the 
Indian chief into the center with himself. Just behind 
sat his Klickitat aides. Before the conference began, 
seventy-five more Indians appeared, fully armed. "Put 
down your arms and be seated," said Lane to the new 
comers. They sat down. General Lane, the hero of 
many a battle, made a great peace talk. "I hear you 
have been murdering and robbing my people. It must 
stop. My people must pass through your country in 
safety. Our laws have been extended here. Obey them, 
and you can live in peace. The Great Father of Wash- 
ington will buy your lands and pay you for them." 

He paused for response. The Rogue River chief 
uttered a stentorian note. His Indians leaped to their 
feet with a war-cry, brandishing their weapons. At a 
flash from the General's eye the Klickitats seized the 
chief. Motioning his men not to shoot, with utter fear- 
lessness Lane walked into the midst of the warriors, 
knocking up their guns with his revolver. ' ' Sit down, ' ' 
he sternly motioned. The astonished chief, with the 
Klickitat's knife before his eye, seconded the motion, 
and the savages grounded their arms. As if nothing 
had happened. Lane went on talking. "Now," he said, 
"go home. Return in two days in a friendly manner to 
another council. Your chief shall be my guest." 

The crestfallen Indians withdrew, leaving their chief 
a prisoner with General Lane. At sunrise an anxious 
squaw came over the hills to find her lord. Jo Lane 



86 Oregon Literature 

brought her in and treated her like a lady. For two 
days Lane talked with that savage chief and won his 
friendship. When the warriors came a treaty was easily 
concluded. 

"And now bring the goods you s'^ole from my people," 
said General Lane. The Indians bundled away and soon 
brought in whatever was left. But the treasures of a 
recent robbery were gone beyond retrieve. Ignorant of 
their value, the savages had emptied the precious sacks 
of gold-dust into the river. 

"What is the name of this great chief?" asked the 
Indians of the interpreter. The Gcnieral himself an- 
swered, "Jo Lane." 

" Give me your name, ' ' said the Indian chief. ' ' I have 
seen no man like you." 

"I will give you half my name," said Lane. "You 
shall be called Jo. To your wife I give the name 'Sally,' 
and your daughter shall be called Mary." 

General Lane wrote a word about the treaty on slips 
of paper and signed his name. Giving them to the 
Indians, he said, "Whenever any white man comes into 
your country, show him this. Take care of my people." 

As long as those precious bits of paper held together 
the Indians preserved them. Whenever a white man 
appeared they went to him, holding out the paper, saying 
rapidly the magic password, "Jo Lane, Jo Lane, Jo 
Lane" — the only English words they knew. For about 
a year Chief Jo tried to keep the peace with the ever- 
increasing flood of white men. 

After a while, when all the other Indians around him 
were lighting. Chief Jo went again on the warpath. 
General Lane, no longer Governor, was building a home 
on his claim in the Umpqua Valley, near the present site 
of Roseburg, when he heard the news. Hastily gathering 
a small force, he hurried to the scene of hostility. For 
a hundred miles up and down the California trail the 
Indians were slaughtering and burning. Houses were 
destroyed and the woods were on fire, and a dense smoke 
hid the enemy's track. 

As soon as Lane appeared he was put in command. 
They traced the Indians, and a great battle was fought 



Mrs. Eva Emery Dye 87 

at a creek near Table Rock. Chief Jo had been proudly 
defiant and boasted, "I have a thousand wiarriors. I 
can darken the sun with their arrows." But when he 
saw his warriors falling, and their women and children 
prisoners, the old chief's feathers dropped. He heard 
that Jo Lane had come, and sent for a "peace talk." 
"Jo Lane, Jo Lane," all the Indians began to call— "Jo 
Lane, Jo Lane"— from bush and hollow. 

The General, wounded in the battle, and faint from 
the loss of blood, ordered a suspension of hostilities. 
Not wishing them to know that he was wounded, he 
threw a cloak over his shoulders to conceal his arm, and 
walked into the Indian camp. His men were amazed, 
and censured this rash exposure of his life. Far off, as 
soon as Chief Jo caught sight of Lane approaching, he 
cried his griefs across the river : ' ' The white men have 
come on horses in great numbers. They are taking our 
country. We are afraid to lie down to sleep, lest they 
come upon us. We are weary of war, and want peace." 

Lane sat down by his namesake. Chief Jo. "Our 
hearts are sick, "said the despondent chief. "We will 
meet you at Table Rock in seven days," was the final 
conclusion, "and give up our arms." Lane agreed to 
this, and took with him the son of Chief Jo as a hostage. 

During the armistice, reinforcements were arriving — 
among them a howitzer and muskets and ammunition — 
in charge of young Lieutenant Kautz, of Fort Vancouver. 
Also, a guard of forty men, led by Captain Nesmith, 
from the Willamette Valley. General Joel Palmer, Su- 
perintendent of Indian Affairs, came, and Judge Deady, 
who was on his way to Jacksonville to hold court. 

The Indians heard of the howitzer long before it 
arrived. ' ' Hyas rifle, ' ' they said ; "it takes a hatful of 
powder, and will shoot down a tree. ' ' They begged that 
the great gun might not be fired. The reinforcements 
were wild to have a chance at those Indians whose camp- 
fires nightly shone from Table Rock, but General Lane 
held them to the armistice. 

The day of the council arrived. In the language of 
Judge Deady, an eye-witness : ' ' The scene of the famous 
'peace talk' between Joseph Lane and Indian Joseph— 



88 Oregon Literature 

two men who had so lately met in mortal combat— was 
worthy of the pen of Sir Walter Scott and tlie pencil of 
Salvator Rosa. It was on a narrow bench of a long 
gently sloping hill lying over against the noted blnli" 
called Table Rock. Lane was in fatigue dress, the arm 
which was wounded at Buena Vista in a sling, from a 
fresh wound received at Battle Creek. Indian Joseph, 
tall, grave and self-possessed, wore a long black robe 
over his ordinary dress. By his side sat Mary, his fav- 
orite child and faithful companion, then a comparatively 
handsome young woman, unstained by the vices of civil- 
ization. Around these sat on the grass Captain A. J. 
Smith, who had just arrived from Port Orford with his 
company of the First Dragoons; Captain Alvord, then 
engaged in the construction of a military road through 
the Umpqua Canon ; and others. A short distance 
above, upon the hillside, were some hundreds of dusky 
warriors in fighting gear, reclining quietly on the ground. 
The day was beautiful. To the east of us rose abruplly 
Table Rock, and at its base stood Smith's dragoons, wait- 
ing anxiously, with hand on horse, the issue of this at- 
tempt to make peace without their aid. ' ' ■ 

Captain Nesmith, on account of his knowledge of 
Chinook, was chosen interpreter. "But those Indians 
are rogues," interposed Nesmith. "It is not safe to 
go among them unarmed." 

"I have promised to go into their camp without arms, 
and I shall keep my word," said Lane. Nevertheless, 
one man, Captain Miller, did keep a pistol concealed 
beneath his coat. 

In the midst of the council a young Indian rushed 
panting in, made a short harangue, and threw himself 
upon the ground, exhausted. A band of white men, led 
by one lawless Owens, had that morning broke the 
armistice, and shot a young cdiief. Every Indian eye 
Hashed ; they began to uncover their guns. 

In the face of that band of fierce and hostile savages, 
every white man thought his time had come, and whis- 
pered a prayer for wife and cliildren. Some muttered 
words that were not prayers. Captain Smith leaned 
upon his saber and looked anxiously down upon his beau- 



•Mrs. Eva Emery Dye 89 

tiful line of dragoons, sitting, with their white belts and 
burnished scabbards, like statues upon their horses in 
the sun below. And yet no word could reach them of 
that imminent peril on the mountain side. 

General Lane sat with compressed lips on a log. An- 
other and another Indian spoke, belaboring back and 
forth their anger. As if stopping the mouth of a volcano, 
General Lane stepped out, calling in a loud tone the 
Indian murnuirs, "Owens is a bad man. He is not one 
of my soldiers. AVhen we catch him he shall be punished. 
You shall be recompensed in blankets and clothing for 
the loss of your young chief. ' ' The red men caught the 
winning words. As Lane went on talking the excitement 
gradually subsided and the conference went on. 

The treaty was concluded, the Indians ceding the whole 
of the Rogue River Valley and accepting a reservation 
at Table Rock. They were to give up their arms, except 
a few for hunting; to have an agent over them; and 
to be paid sixty thousand dollars by the Government, to 
be expended in blankets, clothing, agricultural imple- 
ments, and houses for chiefs. 

When all was over the white men wended their way 
down the rocks. The bugle sounded, and the squadrons 
wheeled away. As General Lane and party rode across 
the valley they looked up and saw the rays of the setting 
sun gilding the summit of Table Rock. 

Nesmith drew a long breath. ' ' General, the next time 
you want to go unarmed into a hostile camp, you must 
hunt up somebody besides myself to act as your in- 
terpreter." 

With a benignant smile General Lane responded, "God 
bless you, Nesmith ; luck is better than science. ' ' Never- 
theless, twenty years later, in just such a case. General 
Canby lost his life at the ]\Iodoc camp. 

Wonderful to relate, in all the fierce and frightful 
Indian wars that followed, the treaty Indians of Table 
Rock forever kept the peace. When all other tribes 
around them were on the warpath, they alone remained 
quiet on their reservation. 



90 Oregon Lifcratnre 

THE OREGON SKYLARK. 

Descendant of a thousand springs, 
The skylark lifts his gladsome wings. 
The skylark lifts and sings and sings 
The song of all created things. 

The skylark sings and summer lifts 
Her head among the snowy drifts 
Of petal bloom that softly sifts 
Thro' breeze and sun and leafy rifts. 

The skylark sings and floats and floats, 
Upon his melody he gloats, 
Outflinging showers of silver notes 
As from a thousand silver throats. 

The skylark sings and multiplies 
His little being as he flies, 
A heart athrob far in the skies 
Till in the blue his paean dies. 

Sing on, sing on, O bird apart. 
Check thou my tears before they start, 
T'hine airy grace, thine untaught art 
Lift sorrow^ from the human heart. 

Sing on, sing on, skylark, sing. 
Mine eye attendant on thy wing 
Hath caught its tender quivering. 
The far vibration of a string. 

By angels swept, a winged lyre 
That kindles all the heart afire. 
That kindles all a saint's desire. 
Like thee, to rise, to hope, aspire. 



rM ■ ^ jp "l ;^ '> ^^ ;"■ || ; f ■ »w i»|i« ' i i i m 




MINNIE MYRTLE MILLER 



Minnie Myrtle Miller 

Poetess of the Coquelle 

ENCAMPED. 

The twilight air is soft and still; 

The night tird trills, the crickets sing; 
The zephyrs from the distant hill 

A thousand pleasant odors bring; 
The tents are spread, the snowy tents, 

Grouped in the grassy glen; 
The 'bugle note has died away; 

And silence reigns again. 

— Minnie Myrtle Miller. 

Edwin Arnold onc6 said, "Joaquin Miller is one of 
the two greatest American poets." But Joaquin Miller's 
life and lines can never be fully understood and appre- 
ciated without some acquaintance with Minnie Myrtle 
Miller, his wife, who stood unrivalled for her peculiar 
versatility. She could carry a gun into the mountain 
fastness and slay a deer, an elk, or a bear, on which 
to dine, or she could relapse into quietude and write a 
poem that showed unquestioned genius, or she could 
appear in high social circles with a queenly grace and 
there entertain the princely and the wealthy. 

We know of no one whose life's history more forcibly 
illustrates the restless longing for larger and higher 
sphere of action than the subject of this sketch, Minnie 
Myrtle Miller. Thirty-six years ago, when the war cloud 
lowered heavy and dark over our land, when there were 
heard criminations and recriminations everywhere, when 
the deliberations of our Congress assumed the form of 
angry debate, when the startling cry of "traitor" was 
heard echoing through the halls dedicated to liberty, 
when father and son held bitter converse, and brothers 
prepared to array themselves as enemies in deadly com- 
bat, when every home in the land was shocked by the 
clash of arms and the tramp of mustering steeds — she 



92 Oregon Literature 

first was kno\\Ti througli the public press and beyond the 
immediate neighborhood of her home. Even there, 
though fnrtliest removed from the seat of war on the 
extreme western verge of civilization, she heard among 
her few associates angry words spoken by youthful 
tongues and read fiery sentences penned by aged hands. 
Hers was a nature too gentle, too kind, too sweet to sound 
or even echo the notes of war. When all the land was a 
Babel of angry voices, hers was clear and sweet. She 
wrote of her home, her friends, of the sunlit waves of the 
Pacific which smoothed the sands for her feet, and told 
the beautiful stories whispered by the tall pines as she 
wandered through the groves. • 

Her name was Theresa Dyer; with the quick ear for 
the musical, which characterized all her writings, she 
adopted the nom de plume of ' ' ^linnie Myrtle ' ' and sent 
her productions— both prose and verse — to the neighbor- 
ing weekly papers. Her future husband, Cincinnatus 
Heine Miller, since known as "Joaquin Miller," was at 
that time writing for the same papers, wild, weird and 
sometimes blood-thirsty stories, signed "Giles Gaston." 
In one of these, in which he thrillingiy depicted a battle 
on the border with the Indians, he expressed a desire to 
become acquainted with the sweet singer of the Coquelle, 
whoever she might be. Although but a youth, he knew 
none but a sweet young girl, filled with all the pleasing 
fancies and fallacies of life, could write as she did. In 
Minnie's next story was given her address; and the 
correspondence, which a few months later resulted in 
her marriage to the Poet, began by his mailing her an ap- 
preciative letter inclosing a tin-type picture of himself. 
He was tall, strong, and not graceless in a woman's eye. 
He found her gentle, handsome and sweet, in the first 
fiush of young wottnanhood. Their first meeting sealed 
their fate. Let the I\)et tell tlie story, for he l<ii(tws 
it best : 

"Tall, dai-k and sti'iking in every respect, this fii-st 
tSaxon woman I had ever addressed, had it all hei- own 
way at once. She knew nothing at all of my life, exct'])! 
that I was an expressman and countiy editoi-. I knew 
nothing at all of her, but I found her with her kind, 



Minnie Myrtle Miller 93 

good paronts, siii-roundod hy brothers and sisters, and 
the pet and spoiled child of the mining and lumber 
camp. In her woody little world there by the sea she 
was worshipped by the ronph miners and lumberman, 
and the heart of the bripht and merry girl M'as bi-immin*r 
full of romance, hope and happiness. I arrived on 
Thursday. On Sunday next we were married ! Procur- 
ing a horse for her, we set out at once to return to my 
post, far away over the mountains. These mountains 
were then, as now and ever will be, I reckon, crossed 
only by a dim, broken trail, with houses twenty or thirty 
miles apart for the few travelers. 

'"The first day out, toward evening we came upon a 
gi-eat band of elk. I drew a revolver, and with wild de- 
light we dashed upon the frightened beasts, and follow- 
ing them quite a distance we lost our way. And s(» we 
had to spend our first night together, tired, hungry, 
thirsty, sitting under the pines on a hillside holding on to 
our impatient horses. We reached our home all i-ighr, 
however, at length, after a week's ride, but only to find 
that my paper had been suppressed by the Governnv^nt, 
and we resolved to seek our fortunes in San Francisco. 
But we found neither fortune nor friends in the great 
new city, and, returning to Oregon, I bousrht a band of 
cattle, and we set out with our baby and a party of 
friends to reach the new mining camp. Canyon City, in 
Eastern Oregon. 

"And what a journey was this of ours over the Oregon 
Sierras, driving the bellowing cattle in the narrow trail 
through the dense woods, up the steep, snowy mountains, 
down through the roaring canyon ! It was wild, glorious, 
fresh, full of hazard and adventure! Minnie had a 
willow basket and swung It to her saddle horn, with the 
crowing and good-natured baby inside, looking up at her. 
laughing, as she leaped her horse over the fallen logs 
or made a full hand with whip and lasso, riding after 
the cattle. But when we descended the wooded moun- 
tains to the open plain on the eastern side of the sierras, 
the Indians were ready to receive us, and we almost 
literally had to fight our way for the next week's 
journey, every night and day. And this woman was one 



94 Oregon Literature 

of the bravest souls that ever saw battle. I think she 
never, even in the hour of death, knew what fear was. 
She was not only a wondei-ful horsewoman, but very 
adroit in the use of arms. She was a much better shot, 
indeed, than myself. In our first little skii-mish on this 
occasion I had taken position on a hill with a few men, 
while the cattle and pack animals were corralled by the 
others in a biji'ht in the foothills below to prevent a 
stampede. And thus intrenched we waited the attack 
from the Indians, who held the farther point of the ridge 
on which I had stationed my men. Suddenly Minnie, 
baby in arms, stood at my side and bejiau; to calmly 
discuss the situation, and to pass merry remarks about 
the queer noises the bullets made as they flatten(^d on 
the rocks about us and glanced over our heads. I finally 
got her to go down, or, rather, promise to go down to 
camp, for the better safety of the baby. But in a 
moment she was back. She had hidden the laughing little 
baby in the rocks, and now, gun in hand, kept at my 
side till tbe brush was over and the Indians beaten off. 

"Here is a leaf from her journal, or rather, I think, 
her recollections of the journey, which she left me along 
with her other papers, when she died : ' One night of 
that journey I shall not soon forget. There had been 
some fighting ahead of us, and we knew the foe was 
lurking in ambush. They made a kind of fort of the 
freight, and while we lay down in the canyon, baby and 
I, way up on the high, sharp butte, Joaquin s'ool sentinel. 
And I say this tonight in his behalf and in his praise that 
he did bravely, and saved his loved ones from peril that 
night. That he stood on that dreary summit, a target 
for the foe, and no one but me to take note of his valor 
—stood till the morning shone radiant, stood till the 
night was passed. There was no world looking on to 
praise his courage and echo it over the land ; only the 
frozen stars in mystic groups far away, and the slender 
moon, like a sword drawn to hold him at bay.' '' 

After seven years of married life they were separated, 
Joaquin going to Europe, while the saddened mother, 
with her three children, returned to her father's home. 
The cause of their separation is still a mystery ; whether 



Minnie Myrtle 3Iiller 95 

some rude shock broke the bonds which love had tied, 
or ardent love was slowly crushed to death by the at- 
trition of dissimilar natures was never known. Certain 
it is that neither was happy after their separation. The 
life of each was saddened before it had well be^un. At 
the early age of thirty-seven, when the poor, tired mother 
laid down her burden, she was soothed by the tender 
words and sustained by the strong arm of the poet lover 
who had won her maiden heart in the springtime of life. 
She died in New York, surrounded by friends, leaving 
unfinished several poems and a sketch of her life, which 
she labored hard to complete before her sunnnons came. 
It has never been published. The manuscript, although 
undoubtedly worthy of preservation, became misplaced 
and cannot now be found. Her friends deeply regret 
this, but it may be best that it was lost. While it would 
surely have found a ready sale, it could not but have 
brought to its readers more tears than smiles. A key 
to much of this lost story of her life appear^ to be given 
in these lines of her poem, "At the Land's End": 

I am conscript — hurried to battle 

With fates — yet I fain would he 

Vanquished and silenced forever 

And driven tack to my sea. 

Oh! to leave this strife, this turmoil 

Leave all undone and skim 

With the clouds that flee to the hilltops 

And rest forever with Him. 

Something of the love she inspired in those who knew 
her best can be gathered from the following extract from 
a faded letter lying before us, written by a lady in New 
York, with whom the poetess spent the last few months 
of her life ; it was addressed to the eldest sister of Minnie 
IMyrtle, Mrs. Hilborn, of ]\Iarshfield, Oregon, and hears 
date of IMay 24, 1882 : "Minnie was a wonderful woman, 
and many a heroine has been made great in history by 
the possession of a small share of her heroic endurance, 
daring courage, calm self-possession, and loyal heart and 
creative brain. We could not appreciate her, much as 
we loved her; grandl and sweet she was, and all the 



96 Oregon Literature 

clouds that lowfred about her house could not shake her 
poise of character." 

We do not incline to eulogize; but by reading the few 
poems Mintiie Myrtle published we are led to the con- 
viction that had her environment been less severe and 
her life prolonged to a ripe age, she would have been 
known and recognized as one of the sweetest songsters of 
the West. Her sweet disposition, as well as her poetic 
talent, was contagious. She produced a marked change 
in the character and writings of her husband. That 
delicate and refined love for the truly beautiful in nature, 
and the breadth and warmth of sympathy for ^^he erring 
and unfortunate which characterizes his writings must 
be admitted to date from his marriage day. We have 
seen what is called a composite picture, compos'^d of Mi" 
best features of two or more individuals. Many of 
Joaquin Miller's poems may be considered composites, 
combining the keen perception and fiery dash of the 
young pioneer, as his early writings display him, with 
the kindly thought, the gentle touch and the delicate 
coloring inseparable from all that was said and done by 
his lost wife. She was the vision that ever beckoned 
him on and up to sublime heights. Oh, how beautiful 
seems gentleness and purity and sympathy and truth ! 
They tell us what the soul should be, when time and 
God's resources have wrought their work upon man. 
And they are to be cherished as the mariner cherishes 
the guiding star that stands upon the horizon. They 
are to be cherished as some traveler lost in a dark, close 
forest cherishes the moment when the sun breaks 
through a rift in the clouds and he takes his bearings 
out of the wilderness toward his home. Visions are Ood 
within the soul. This, Joaquin Miller fully realized, 
and has said, "That which is best in my work was in- 
spired by her. " 

Though their separation was long a sorrow to both, 
and the flowers have blossomed for many years over the 
grave of the poetess, yet in object, aim and desire, they 
are one today; and the soul of the beautiful bride which 
the poet wooed and won in the wilds of the Coquelle so 
long ago, still shines in all his lines and brightens all 
his pages. 



Carrie Blake Morgan 

Carrie Blake Morcran spent her childhood days in 
Union County, Oregon, where she gave unmistakable 
evidence of rare talent in writing; and it may he said 
of her that her poems and stories have for years found 
ready acceptance with many of the best magazines. 
She devotes much of lier time to literary pursuits with 
her sister, Mrs. P:ila lligginson, at Whatcom, Washing- 
Inn. The following were taken from her bookh't entitled 
"The Path of Gold": 



NO MAN HATH RIGHT. 

No man hath right to rear a prison wall 

About himself, and then to sit therein 
And sigh for freedom, gone beyond recall, 

And make his moan for things that might have been. 

Nor hath he right to build himself a stair. 

By which to scale his prison's high rampart. 
When every stroke must mean some soul 's despair. 
■ And every step a bleeding human heart. 

THE OLD EMIGRANT ROAD. 

Aged and desolate, grizzled and still. 

It creeps in slow curves round the base of the hill : 

Of its once busy traffic it left little trace. 

Not a hoof-print or wheel-track is fresh on its face. 

Rank brambles encroach on its poor ragged edge. 

And bowlders crash down from the moun'ainside ledge; 

The elements join to efface the dim trail. 

The torrents of springtime, the winter's fierce gale. 



98 Orcyun Litcruturc 

Yet with pioTU'ci- slurdiiicss, patient and still. 
It lingers and ('liii<,fs i-ound the hase of the hill; 
Outlasting its usefulness, furrowed and ^ray, 
(jhauut phantom of yesterday, haunting today. 

MEMORY. 

A low-hung moon; a path of silver tlanie 
Across a lonely stream ; a whispering wood ; 

A vigil drear for one who never came; 
And all around (Hod's peopled solitude. 

SACRED. 

Deep in each artist's soul some picture lies 
That he will never paint for mortal ey<'s; 
And every singer in his heart doth hold 
Some sad. sweet tale that he will leave untold. 

AT DEAD OF NIGHT. 

I woke at dead of night. The wind was high; 

My white rosehnsh was tapping 'gainst the pane 

With gliostly finger tips; a sobbing rain 
Made doleful i-hythm for my thoughts, and T 
Strove vainly not to think, and wondered why 

My brain, ghoul-like, must dig where long had Iain 

The pulseless dead that time and change had slain. 
I fear no living thing. But oh ! to lie 

And see the gruesome dark within my room 
Take eyes and turn on me with yearning gaz(> ! 

To hear reproachful voices from the tomb 
Of duties uufullilled - might w^ell-nigh craze 

A strong*'!' brain! Ood save me fi-om the gloom 
Of sleepless hours that stretch between two days! 



Wallis Nash 

The following is an extract from a volume entitled 
"Two Years in Ore<;on," published hy Hon. Wallis 
Nash, of Nashville, Oregon. In 1880-1 Mr. Nash visited 
Oregon, and upon returning to London he wrote his 
impressions in the volume mentioned. Oregon won hijn; 
and upon coming hither for a permanent home, he con- 
tributed very liberally to magazines and other publica- 
tions, announcing the attractions and resources of Ore- 
gon—the emerald state. 

TWO YEARS IN OREGON. 

What the notions of some of our par-ty were you will 
understand when I mention that all I could say cf)ul(l 
not prevent the young men of the party from arming 
themselves, as for a campaign in the hostile Indian 
country, so that each man stepped ashore from the boat 
that brought us up the Willamette with a revolver in 
each pocket, and the hugest and most uncompromising 
knives that either London, New York, or San Francisco 
could furnish. 

As ill luck would have it, just as we arrived the sheriff 
had returned to town with an escaped prisoner, and had 
been set upon by the brother, and a pistol had been 
actually presented at him. I should say in a whispt^r 
that the sheriff, worthy man, had proposed to return 
the assault in kind, but had failed to get his six-shooter 
out in time from the depths of a capacious pocket, where 
the deadly weapon lay in harmless neighborhood with 
a long piece of string, a handful or so of seed wheat, a 
large chunk of lobacco, a leather strap and buckle, and 
a big red pocket handkerchief. So T fancy he had not 
much idea of shooting when he started out. 

But the incident was enough to give a blood color to 
all our first letters home, and I dare say caused a good 
many shiverings and shudders at the thought of the 
wild men of the woods we had come to neighbor with. 

LofC. 



100 Oregon Literature 

The worst of it was, that it was the only approach to 
a tragedy, and that we have had no adventures worth 
speaking of. "Story, God bless you! I have none to 
tell you, sir." Still we did know ourselves to be in a 
new world when we stepped ashore from the large white- 
painted, three-story structure on the water, that they 
called a stern-wheel river boat, and in which we had 
spent two days in coming up the great river from Port- 
land. It was the 17th of ]\Iay, just a month after 
leaving Liverpool, that we landed. The white houses of 
the little City of Corvallis were nestled closely in the 
liright spring green of the alders and willows and oaks 
that fringed the river, and the morning sun flashed on 
the metal cupola of the courthouse, and lighted up the 
deep blue clear-cut mountains that rose on 1he right of 
us but a few miles off. 

When we got into the main street the long, low, broken 
line of booth-like, wooden, one-storied stores and houses, 
all looking as if one strons: man could push them down, 
and one strong team could carry them off, grated a little, 
I could see. on the feelings of some of the party. The 
redeeming feature was the trees, lining the street at long 
intervals, darkening the houses a little, but clothing the 
town, and giving it an air of age and respectabili+y that 
was lacking in many of the bare rows of shanties, 
dignitied with the title of town, that we had passed in 
coming here across the continent. 

The New England Hotel invited us in. A pretty 
plane-tree in front overshadowed the door; and a 
bright, cheery hostess stood in the doorway to welcome 
us, shaking hands, and greeting our large party of 
twenty-six in a fashion of freedom to which we had not 
been used, but which sounded pleasantly in our travel- 
worn ears. The house was tumble-down and shabby, 
and needed the new coat of paint it received soon after 
—but in the corner of the sitting-room stood a good 
parlor organ. The dining-room ad.joining had red cloths 
en the tables, and gave a full view into the kitchen ; 
but the "beefsteak, mutton-chop, pork-chop, and hash" 
were good and well cooked, and contrasted with, rather 
than reminded us of, the fare described by Charles 



Wallis Nash 101 

Dickens as ofPered him in the Eastern States when he 
visited America thirty-nine years ago. 

The bedrooms, opening all on to the long passage 
upstairs, with meager furniture and patchwork quilts, 
the whole wooden house shaking as we trotted from room 
to room, were not so interesting, and tempted no long 
delay in bed after the early breakfast-gong had been 
sounded soon after six. Breakfast at half-past six, 
dinner at noon, and supper at half -past five, only set 
the clock of our lives a couple of hours faster than we 
had been used to ; and bed at nine was soon no novelty 
to us. 

The street in front was a wide sea of slushy mud when 
we arrived, with an occasional planked crossing, needing 
a sober head and a good conscience to navigate safely 
after dark; for, when evening had closed in, the only 
street-lighting came from the open doors, and through 
the filled and dressed windows of the stores. 

Saloons were forbidden by solemn agreement to all of 
us, but the barber's shop was the very pleasant substi- 
tute. Two or three big easy-chairs in a row, with a stool 
in front of each. Generally filled they were by the 
grave and reverend seigniors of the city— each man re- 
posing calmly, draped in white, while he enjoyed the 
luxury, under the skillful hands of the barber or his 
man, of a clean shave. At the far end of the shop stood 
the round iron stove, with a circle of wooden chairs and 
an old sofa. And here we enjoyed the parliament of 
free talk. The circle was a frequently changing one, but 
the types were constant. 

The door opened and in came a man from the country : 
such a hat on his head ! a brim wide enough for an 
umbrella, the color a dirty white; a scarlet, collarless 
flannel shirt, the only bit of positive color about him; 
a coat and trousers of well-worn brown, canvas overall 
(or, as sometimes spelled, "overhaul"), the trousers 
tucked into knee-high boots, worn six months and never 
blacked. His hands were always in his pockets, except 
when used to feed his mouth with the constant "chaw." 
—"Hello, Tom," he says slowly, as he makes his way 
to the back, by the stove. ' ' Hello, Jerry, ' ' is the instant 



102 Orff/oii Lllrrdlure 

response. ''How's your health?" "Well; and how do 
you make it?" "So-so." "Any news out with you?" 
"Wall, no; things pretty quiet." And he finds a seat 
and sinks into it as if he intended growing there till next 
harvest. 

We all know each other by our "given" names. I 
asked one of our politicians how he prepared himself 
for a canvass in a county where I knew he was a stranger 
this last summer. "Well, I just learned up all the boys' 
given names, so I could call them when I met them," 
was the answer. "I guess knowing 'em was as good as 
a hundred votes to me in the end." It was a little 
startling at first to see a rough Oregonian ride up to 
our house, dismount, hitch his horse to the paling, and 
stroll casually in, with "Where's Herbert?" as his first 
and only greeting. But we soon got used to it. 

But the barber's shop was, and is, useful to us, as 
well as amusing. The values and productiveness of 
farms for sale, the worth and characters of horses, the 
prices of cattle, the best and most likely and accessible 
places for fishing, and deer-shooting, and duck-hunting— 
all such matters, and a hundred other things useful 
for us to know, we picked up here, or "sitting around" 
the stoves in one or other of the stores in the town. 

Another good gained was, that thus our new neigh- 
bors and we got acquainted : they found we were not 
all the "lords" they set us down for at first, with the 
exclusiveness and pride they attributed to that maligned 
race in advance; while we on our side found a vast 
amount of self-respect, of native and acquired shrewd- 
ness, of legitimate pride in country, state, and county, 
and a fund of kindly wishes to see us prosper, among 
our roughly-dressed but really courteous neighbors. 

There was a good deal of feminine curiosity displayed 
on either side, by the natives and the new-comers. When 
we went to church the first Sunday after our arrival, 
there were a good many curious worshipers, more intent 
on hats and bonnets of the strangers than on the service 
in which we united. We heard afterward how disap- 
pointed they were that the stranger ladies were so quietly 
and cheaply dressed. W^e could not saj'^ the same when 



Wallis Nash 103 

callers came, which they speedily did after we were 
settled in our little home— such tight kid gloves, and 
bright bonnets, and silk mantles! It was a constant 
wonder to our w^omen-folk how their friends managed to 
show as such gay butterflies, two thousand miles on the 
westward side of everywhere. 



Colonel John Kelsay 

TO THE OREGON PIONEER. 

The chilling autumn winds blow hard upon you now ; 
many of you are far down on the sunset side of Time 
and will soon pass from this life. Long will you and 
your acts be remembered by a grateful posterity. Your 
early settlement of this country and the many dangers 
and difficulties you have encountered will outlive the 
English language. 



William R. Lord 

Rev. William R. Lord, author of "The Birds of 
Oregon and Washington," is a native of Massachusetts, 
having been born in Boston, May 6, 1847. He graduated 
at Amherst in 1875, and at Union Theological Seminary, 
New York, in 1878. His years of ministry have been 
passed in the larger cities of the country. New York, 
Boston, St. Paul, and latterly in Portland, Oregon. 

Upon comins: to Oregon Mr. Lord was attracted to the 
bird-life of the state; and after familiarizing himself 
with it undertook to do for the people of the Northwest 
Pacific States what may have been done for the Atlantic 
Coast, that is to make comparatively easy the identi- 
fication of the birds more commonly seen. He wrote a 
book entitled "The Birds of Oregon and Washington,'' 
which has already gone through several editions. In 
doing this work, Mr. Lord has been greatly assis'ed by 
his fellow student and wife, Mrs. Lord, who shares with 
him an interest and joy in these winged creatures. 

THE BIRDS OF OREGON AND WASHINGTON. 
A Word to Beginners and Teachers, 

Certainly all education should tend to ennoble char- 
acter and furnish the sources of the highest happiness. 
If this be the end sought, then a sympathetic and aesthe- 
tic interest is the thing we must seek to get and give, 
in our pursuit of knowledge of birds. 

Indeed, it is a pursuit fairly dangerous to our own 
possible enjoyment, when we set out with opera-glass 
and note-book to name and catalogue the birds, lest we 
shall be less satisfied to listen with exquisite satisfaction 
to some superb singer, than to get his description in our 
note-books. It is not a tithe as important that we should 
know the name and habits of a bird as that we should 
answer his ecs asy of song with ecstacy of delight. Dr. 



William h'. Lord 105 

Henry Van Dyke has friven us a motto for the societies 
which are opposing the heartless and harmful practice 
of using birds for millinery purposes. It is : "A bird in 
the bush is worth ten in the hat." Should not every 
bird-student have at the beginning of his note-book some 
sentiment like this! "A bird in the heart is worth more 
than a hundred in the note-book." In a word, let us, 
in the study of birds, learn to take more time to listen to 
the beauty of song and to look upon the beauty of form, 
of color and of movement, than to add their names to 
our lists and familiarize ourselves with Iheir curious 
habits. 

The Western Meadowlark. 

If this part of our country had no bird except the 
Meadowlark, it would be, in respect of bird song, blessed 
above any other land I know. Such a rarely beautiful, 
endlessly varied and wonderfully incessant singer ! No 
bird anywhere has a fuller or richer note; none such 
variety of songs, except, perhaps, the Mocking-bird and 
the Longtailed Chat; none like this bird makes varied 
and joyous melody in summer and in winter, too ; in 
rain, in snow% in cold. Not a day in the winter of 1900 
and 1901, have the Meadowlarks upon a hill near Port- 
land failed to voice the happiness, or bid depart the 
gloom, of their human neighbors. No one knows the 
bird until he has listened to the many different songs 
that he sings while perched upon tree or fence, or again 
upon a telegraph pole, or even upon the ridgepole of a 
house ; . nor yet unless he has caught a peculiar and 
most rapturous song while the bird is on the wing— a 
song so unlike those we are accustomed to that it seems 
not to have been uttered by Meadowlark at all. 

How^ TO Domesticate and Tame Birds. 

Everybody enjoys the familiar presence of "wild" 
birds. Even persons who have never thought much of 
these winged creatures are pleased when the Wrens or 
Bluebirds force themselves into notice by nesting in the 
letter box at the gate, or pre-empting a cranny under the 
piazza roof. 



106 Oregon Literature 

People do not realize that, with a very little trouble, 
they might have a hundred bird neij^hbors in summer, 
where now there are none, or only a pair or two, who 
have come uninvited and unprovided for. Every home 
in the country or near our cities, and very many in the 
towns, and even in the cilies themselves, might have, 
with each coming of spring, a score of feathered friends 
returning from a faraway southern wintering. 

Nothing so civilizes and humanizes children as this 
care and interest. In Worcester, Massachusetts, in one 
district where the care and protection of birds have been 
taught to and inspired in the children of a public school, 
vandalism has ceased among the boys. They are busy 
providing bird-boxes, watching for nests in the trees, 
guarding the fledgings against cats and dogs, and their 
hearts have sof tejied meanwhile. Were it only a measure 
for taming and civilizing boys, the taming of birds 
would be worth while. 

But what a minstry of delight do these angels of song 
and grace bring to old and young, when once we have 
taken them under our care ! "Let but a bird— that being 
so free and uncontrolled, which with one stroke of the 
wing puts space between you and himself — let him be 
willing to draw near and conclude a friendship with 
you, and lo, how your heart is moved." — Mme. Michelet. 



J. H. Ackerman 

THE POWER OF LITERATURE. 

There are two ways of viewing- any object: it may be 
viewed concretely and scientifically or it may be viewed 
in accordance with its aesthetic or moral value. As the 
result of the first we have knowledge; of the second, 
culture. 

Each has what in the widest sense must be called its 
body of literature. But how much stronger the litera- 
ture of the second ! How much more appealing to our 
innate love of the good, the beautiful ! How much more 
moving to the human heart the artist's description 
of the tented field than the quartermaster's list of all the 
implements of war therein contained ! What power lies 
within the artist's dream as compared with the bare 
realities of a sombre catalogue ! Literature, the litera- 
ture of power, is based upon real culture. 

How much then of our public school work ministers 
to the daily need of the pupil for moral and aesthetic 
education? Little of it except reading can be strictly 
put under the classification. Formerly this fact was 
considered of little importance and the child's nature 
was misjudged and in consequence starved. We now 
know that it is not the abnormal child alone who cares 
for literature, but all, even the every-day children 
around us are more or less susceptible to its influence. 
The childish appreciation of literature shown by great 
writers should not be taken to prove the lack of this ap- 
preciation in others, but rather to prove that a child may 
love a good book even as he does the sunlight or the 
quiet beauty of green fields and shining water courses. 

On account of the undue importance attached to facts 
as mere facts, for many years the child who was dull in 
their acquirement was never allowed to quicken his 
powers by delving in fable and romance. Now we are 



108 Oregon TAtcrniurc 

begiuning 1o realize that a child as a child, or as he 
reaches the mysterious merging into manhood or woman- 
hood, lays, for better or for worse, the foundations of 
his future taste for real or false jewels of literature. 
The literature of power should not be shut out of our 
elementary schools. Let its acquaintance be made 
through the medium of books and libraries, through tall 
buildings and broader opportunities, till our people shall 
be a people of growing literary pc v-^r, a people appreci- 
ative of poetry and the broader humanity, and shall be 
guided to the heart of poetry, humanity, to what in 
human is divine; and shall be led to love the beautiful 
within and "behold good in everything but sin." 



Peter H. Burnett 

A BIT OF LOGIC. 

I never knew so fine a population, as a whole commun- 
ity, as I saw in Oregon most of the time I was there. 
They were all honest, because there was nothing to steal ; 
they were all sober, because there was no liquor to drink; 
there were no misers, because there was nothnig to hoard; 
they were industrious, because it was work or starve. 




i 



■f.^ 



'"^~■ 



.^^^' 



n 



/-- i t, X J 






ABIGAIL SCOTT.DUNIWAY 



Mrs. Abigail Scott Duniway 

Before the days of reading' eircles in Oi-e^on there were 
a few ladies who believed that a woman eonld raise her 
family properly and yet have time for books and other 
literary diversions that furnish food for the mind. 
Prominent amonfj these was Mrs. Abigail Scott Uuniway, 
for many years editor of the New Northwest. She wrote 
for women who believe that they should be emancipated 
from many of the features of society that tolerate in- 
temperance. She advocated the theory that woman has 
a responsibility to assume, and that every mother shoukl 
fearlessly attack intemperance in the home, in society 
and at the ballot box. This was the theme of 1 he gospel 
she preached. 

She also wrote many beautiful stories in prose and 
versified David and Anna Matson, a paraphrase of Whit- 
tier's story. Some of her poems are: "The Dirge of 
the Sea," "West and West," "The Nocturnal ^Wed- 
ding," "The Destiny of Freedom." "Thoughts in St(;rm 
and Solitude," "Laudamus," and "After Twenty 
Years." 

AFTER TWENTY YEARS. 

{W^-itteii by Mrs. A. S. Duniway u)i tin (Ircaf l'J(n)is 
opposite her mother's grave, near Fort Laramie, May 
5th, 1872.) 

Adown the dead and distant years 

My memory treads the sands of time, 

And blighted hope a vision rears. 
Enriched by srlitudes sublime. 

And down the mys'ie, dreamy past 

In chastened mood I wander now, 
As o'er these prairies, old and vast, 

Move lines of oxen, tired and slow. 



110 Orcfjoii TjUcrahirG 

Their roiisli-riblx'd sides and hollow oyes 
And listless gaze and lazy tread. 

As under cloudless, burnin<j; skies 

Our way o'er trackless wastes they led, 
But visions are of long ago. 

Today, an iron horse, "The Storm," 
All panting rushes o'er the plain; 

His breath with steam is quick and warm, 
As on he thunders with our train. 

Afar the Rocky IMountains rise. 

Their rugged stee{)s adorned with snow. 
While o'er the hill the antelope hies. 

And Indians wander to and fro. 
The buffalo gazes from afar, 

Where erst in trust secure he fed. 
Ere man upon him had made wai-. 

And he was wont at will to tread 

Anear our oxen, sure and slow. 

Fort Laramie, across away. 

Beyond yon hills that intei-vene. 

My memory sees as on that day. 
Just twenty years ago, 'twas seen. 

There, in the echoing hills, hard by, 

Surnaraed "The Black," adorned by woods, 
My mother laid her down to die. 

In those grand, awful solitudes. 
The wild coyote yet roams at will. 

The timid hare and buffalo. 
The antelope and serpent still 

In freedom range, and come and go. 

While Indians gaze in scornful moods. 

Gone are the oxen, patient brutes. 
And drivers, with the song and jest. 

Of ruder days they were the fruits. 
And toiling well, they did their best. 



Mrs. Abigail Scott Duuiivay 111 

Their day is j)ast, and now, at ease, 

We .ulide along at rapid pace, 
Gazing abroad, while though' s of these, 

The days of yore, take present place. 
And I am self -forgetful, too, 

For through the long, eventful past. 
Since last I dreamed beneath the blue, 

Arched dome above these jilains so vast 

I find of twenty years no trace. 

My mother sleeps, dear (lod, as slep^ 
Her peaceful form when we that day 

Laid her to rest, marched on and wept. 
Too sad to talk, too dumb to pray. 

Was it the breath of angel's wing 

That fanned, erewhile, my fevered brow? 
Did I hear heavenly seraphs sing. 

When eyes and ears were closed just now? 
0, mother, memory, God, and truth, 

While yet I tarry here below. 
Guide oft thy faltering, trembling one. 

May I regret not years, nor youth, 
Nor that my life thus far is done. 

As through these wilds once more I go. 

THOUGHTS IN STORM AND SOLITUDE. 

The rain, the sobbing and pattering rain, 

Is falling in torrents tonight; 
While the winds in loud chorus join in the refrain. 
Keeping time to the sobs of the pattering rain 
And the throbs of my heart in its dull aching pain. 

As I toss on my pillow tonight. 

0, rest and oblivion, where are you flown? 

'Tis a question I ask o'er and o'er; 
But the elements answer with many a moan. 
Crying, ''Rest and oblivion, where are you flown?" 
And Hope in her might scarcely stifles a groan. 

As the question is asked o'er and o'er. 



112 Oregon Literature 

The rain, the shriekin*,'' and sibilant rain, 

Rusheth down in wihl frenzy tonifjht; 
The wild winds shout on in thcii* madness ajjain, 
Defyintr the shrieking and sibilant rain, 
While I s'rujitjle for sleep, but the etiPort is vain. 

For repose hath departed tonicrht. 

ririni darkness hath setthxl o'er earlli like a pall; 

Assassins and thieves dare not stii'; 
The All-8eein^ Eye beholds eartli's cbildi-cii all. 
Seeth even the darkness o'er us, like a pall, 
Notcth even file spari'ow. bis Hinlit and his Tall. 

And I know 'here is nothing- to fear. 

Now, rain, the pelting and pitiless rain. 

Husheth down the rude voice of tbc wind; 
How f)ot('nt the spell that such spirit hath lain — 
How strong ai-t thou, pelting and jiitiless rain. 
As back' ^o his home on the mountain and main, 

'I'hou di'ivest the rude, shrieking wind. 

'Tis day-dawn. Sweet slumbei* steals over my lirow 

While sih'utly weepeth the rain. 
I care little for soi'i'ow or storm-i'agings now. 
While thrice-welcome slumber steals over my bi-ow, 
I'm at peace with the world and my neighlxirs, 1 tr(!W 

AVhile silently wee])eth the rain. 

Albany, Oregon, November, 1868. 




LOUIS ALBERT BANKS 



Louis Albert Banks 

Wluit, ^ood cHii conic out of Nazareth? lias Ix^t'ii ati- 
swerod aiiaiii. From infaiiev to childhood, and from 
childhood to the boy preacher of sixteen, we find him 
in Oregon. Charles J^arkhurst, the great divine and re- 
former, says of him: "Louis Albert Banks, after leav- 
ing Philomalli College, commenced to preach the gosjx'l 
in Washington Territory, and many were converted. 
From seventeen to twenty-one, he taught school and 
studied law, being admitted to practice in the c<)urts. 
He received his first regular appointment from Bishop 
Gilbert Haven, and was stationed in Portland, Oregon. 
Fearless as a reformer, in his pulpit, he has been shot 
down by the infuriated saloonist, and mobbed by the 
anti-Chinese rioters." He has occupied some of the 
wealthiest pulpits of the Methodist Episcopal Church 
in the United States, where he has met with remarkable 
success as a minister and as an author. 

His principal books are "(Jensor lOchoes," "The Peo- 
ple's Chri.st," "The Revival Giver," "White Slaves," 
"Common Folks' Religion," "Honeycombs of Life," 
"The Heavenly Tradewinds," "The Christ Dream." 
"Christ and His Friends," "The Saloon Keeper's 
Ledger," "Seven Times Around Jericho," "The Hero 
Tal("s from Sacred History," "An Oregon Boyhood," 
"Sermon Stories for Boys and Girls," "The Christ 
Brotherhood" and "Immortal Hymns and Their Story." 

Dr. Banks's popularity as an author is such that the 
great reformer in writing an introduction to one of these 
books said, "To be invited to a place beside the author 
of the volume, and to present him to the reading public, 
is a delightful privilege." 

Mr. Banks's books and sermons may fitly be termed 
"the Wild Flowers of Oregon," for he has culled the 
lambs' tongue, the rhododendi-on, the wild lilac, the field 
lily, the honeysuckle, and the wild grape, and taken this 



114 Orcfjon Liieraturc 

handful of wild fluwers from the hills and valleys of 
Oregon and woven them into beautiful sermons and 
books— thus furnishino; a delightful source of help to 
thousands of men and women on both continents. In- 
deed, his style may be defined as the wild tiowers of 
Oregon so delicately transplanted from the mild atmos- 
phere of the West into the conservatories of the rigid 
East that they have lost none of their original fragrance 
or beauty. Thus, through Dr. Banks our scenery has 
flowered out upon an eastern landscape and developed 
into a beautiful style which he may proudly call his own ; 
and while the scholars of the East may notice the exotic 
elements in it they cannot resist the pleasure it gives 
them; therefore, they will encourage Dr. Banks in pn-- 
serving his literary identity in the fast-tiowing stream of 
books he is pouring out upon the reading public. 




Belle W. Cooke 

Tho f()l]()\vin<,f poems were written by Mrs. Belle W. 
Cooke, of Salem, a lady who has obtained considerable 
distinction. She is the anthor of an interesting volume 
of poems, and wherever known is recognized as a woman 
of culture and high social attainments. Her home at 
the present time (1902) is in San Francisco, California. 

SEATTLE. 

Queen city by the Northern Sound, 

High seated on thy sloping hills. 
Begirt with snowy mountains round, 

Thy beauty all my being thrills. 

When burns the sunset in the west, 
With crimson bars and purple shades, 

On dark Ulympus' snow-flecked crest 
A misty crown gleams out and fades. 

While on Tacoma's kingly face 

The rosy blushes gleaming lie. 
And changeful hues, with wondrous grace 

Across the watery mirror fly. 

When morning looks through fringe of trees. 
And tips the western peaks wdth gold, 

And misty veils curled by the breeze 
Lie on the water, fold on fold — 

Then rocky gorge, and tree-crowned spur. 
Touched by the pencil of the daw'n, 
, With rounded heights, and groves of fir, 
^ Spring out to greet the beauteous morn, 



116 Oregon Literature 

Tho ico-orovviKMl king with shadows cold 
Spai-kles and glistens white and grand. 

And beauty wakes in wood and wold. 
And beams from nooks on every hand. 

Long may thy beauty bless the earth. 

And teaeh the lesson (Jod doth mean, 
And nobler men in thee have l)irth 

Than ever yet the world hath seen. 



1 KNOW NOT. 

I know not what the day may bring 

Of sorrow or of sweetness, 
I only know that God must give 

Its measure of completeness; 
I reach for wisdom in the dark. 

And God fills up the measure— 
Sometimes with tears, sometimes with cares, 

Sometimes with peace and pleasure. 

From hours of grief and saddened face 

True wealth of heart I borrow. 
And heavenly wisdom oftenest comes 

Clad in the guise of sorrow : 
I know not which is best for me 

Of all his mercy bringeth, 
I know^ his praise every day 

My willing spirit singeth. 

\ 

I know not what my life may yield 

Of fruit that will not perish, 
I know God gives both seed and soil, 

And all the growth must cherish. 
How great his work! How small my part! 

I wonder at my weakness. 
And his great patience fill my heart 

With gratitude and meekness. 



Bfllf W. Cooke 



117 



I know not what e'eu heaven can give 
To blessed souls who gain it; 

I know God's goodness it must show, 
For earth cannot contain it. 

And if eternity but rings 

With love, the same sweet story 

That earth is telling every day — 

"Thine, Lord, shall be the glory." 




Dr. T. L. Eliot 

Of Doctor Eliot, H'ines's "History of Oregon" says: 
"Mr. Eliot has the distinction of having held the longest 
pastorate in the City of Portland or in the State of 
Oregon. He was called from the City of St. Lonis in 
1867, while yet a young man, to the pastorate of the 
First Unitarian Church of Portland, worshiping in a 
very unpretentious chapel, situated on the site of the 
present large and beautiful edifice. From 1867 to 1893 
Mr. Eliot continued as its pastor, when he voluntarily 
resigned his charge on account of impaired health, thus 
giving a full quarter of a century of extraordinarily 
useful service to his church and the state of which he 
has been so eminent a citizen." Doctor Eliot has visited 
the Holy Land and published his observations and im- 
pressions of that region in two very attractive volumes. 

TEMPERANCE. 

{From a sermmi on Temverance delivered at Portland, 
Oregon, hy Eev. T. L.' Eliot, September 16, 1862.) 

See how clear and high, how deep and broad, the 
principle which can be laid down — how it covers all 
cases, without regard to individual differences of con- 
science or taste. See how this statement of the case 
proves that after all it is Christianity that nuist conquer 
the evil of intemperance. jMust we wait until everybody 
has it proved to him individually, perscmally, that it is 
a sin for him to touch liquor? My friends, the cause 
would die by inches under such a process. In spite of 
all that zealous temperance reformers say, it is an open 
question, as to whether abstractly considered, there may 
not be a right use and individual good coming from the 
stimulative action of proper doses of alcohol. I say it is 
an open question, by no means proved ; and if it were 
so, there would remain the fact that thousands upon 



Dr. T. L. Eliot 119 

thousands of individual consciences, looking upon it as a 
mere personal matter, are at liberty. But this principle 
of Paul's, this principle of Christ's comes in to every 
such case ; it is an appeal to high and low, to every class 
and condition— shall your liberty be a stumbling-block? 
Does your abstract right, become by the condition of 
society, a concrete wrong? Has your example any 
weight? Have you any duty toward society standing 
just as it does and as you do ? Now there are hundreds 
of thousands who in this principle, if it could reach, and 
be clearly before them today, would see a Christian law 
where they saw no conscience law. They would see that 
in the sight of God and Christ they were called on to 
use their liberty as a ladder and not as a stumbling-block. 
There are men who will say "I can drink— I can afford 
it, I can be moderate, it does me good, more or less, I 
can step up to a bar, and not feel injured." But look 
you ! the community is tainted, nine tenths of the liquor 
is poisoned and drugged, every other man has the plague 
spot of an inherited thirst for liquor, ninety-five retail 
saloons— nearly aU— are plying nefarious arts, ringing 
in their victims. It is notorious that -they live upon the 
infirm and weak of purpose— the hard-drinking, and 
those running down hill— these air holes to the pit, are 
dragging in young men, corrupting boys, sending out 
their fumes into the very home and sanctuary. Physical 
and moral idiots stalk the streets, the asylum and the 
jail rise up as witnesses against us— drink if you can, 
in the face of this! Why, my brother, it seems to me 
that I would as soon throw pitch upon a house on fire, 
or eat with the knife that had cut another man's 
throat ! Once realize the nature and extent of this evil 
in your midst, the heart-ache, the bitter, burning woe, 
the degradation that lie at the door of this awful drink- 
ing habit, and you must pause! You must see, that 
liberty, or no liberty, there is but one thing to do— that 
you must cast your influence high, clear, positive, or 
woe be unto you in that great day when Christ shall 
judge between you and your fellow man. 



Anonymous 

REMEMBERED BY WHAT SHE HAS DONE. 

Lines read at the forty-fifth anniversary oi an Oregon 
Church, in which the music was regularly furnished by a choir 
consisting of the family of a lady who during half her lifetime 
had been their organist and leader. 

The spirit has flown ; and the song unsung 
Has tuned the harp long left unstrung; 
And the heart beats the notes of the love aglow 
With the echoing tones of the long ago. 

We heard her sing, for loved ones, 

To the swelling notes of the old organ tones, 

Till the zephyrs that lingered in the church old and gray 

Transported fond memories from the far away. 

We heard her sing in the Sunday School 
Where the little ones learned the (! olden Rule, 
From the books that are now both tattered and torn. 
But precious to us for the tidings they have borne. 

We heard her sing at the graveyard lonely and cold 
Where friends had been laid midst sorrows untold, 
Where the mourners met round the lonely bier 
To offer a tribute and a farewell tear. 

We went to her grave when her voice was stilled, 
And our saddened hearts with memories thrilled ; 
And we listened, but her song was no more. 
For the singer was standing on another shore. 

She had crossed to the land, in wdiich we are told. 
There are cities and harps and crowns of gold, 
To mingle for aye with the joyous thi'ong 
That ever will ever sing a rapturous song. 



\ 

\ 



Anovymous 121 

And she's singing tonigh in the invisible choir 
With voices attuned to the heavenly lyre ; 
And the song that she chants is the sweetest by far, 
For she's singing the song of Bethlehem's star. 

We returned to church again and again 
To hear the same sweet gentle strain 
Which was sung by lips attuned anew 
By her who had bidden the earth adieu. 

Oft and again throughout the days 

Our hearts were uplifted in joyous praise 

By the spirit of song which, like an angel's breath. 

Whispers gently though the singer is silent in death. 



ANGELS ARE WAITING FOR ME. 

A saint whose wearied body rests in the silent city 
crowning a little Oregon hill, and whose sacred memory 
IS a precious legacy to those who survive her. and whose 
example, like an angel's touch, gently impels upward, 
caught a few glimpses of the higher heaven from the 
heaven she lived in here below ; and before the final hour 
came, gave expression in poetic, psalm-like language to 
her rapture upon the visions she beheld. These utter- 
ances were entrusted to a youth who wove them into 
verse. 

After the poem descants briefly upon her departure 
from the home of her birth to a far-distant land to share 
with the loved ones of earth in bearing the burdens and 
toil for Him who bled for our wrong, in the full con- 
sciousness of a glorious victory, she says : ' ' His peace 
as a river now fiow^s through soul and body so free that 
glory abounds in my heart while angels are waiting for 
me. ' ' She continues : 

"The Bible is plain to me now; 
For Jesus explains as I read, 
And lines for me verses ne'er sung— 
With manna my spirit they feed! 



122 Oregon Literature 

There's such a bright light round the cross; 

And over the dark, stormy sea, 
The friends who before me have gone 

Are angels now waiting for me. 

"Among the long ranks that they form 
In Glory, my Savior there stands 
With multitudes grand, who are saved, 

And marking in beautiful bands ; 
'They're coming in thousands' with Him— 
Those bright ones o 'er there can you see, 
Whose luster illumines that throng? 
Those 'angels are calling for me.' 

"Those mansions and cities so fair 

Are teeming with armies in white, 
The courts will be empty of tli^m — 

'They're coming to me' in their flight; 
'More coming!' Now 'Glory to God!' 

'They stand by my bed.' 'Can you see?' 
I'm waiting; yes, 'waiting'; because 

Those ' angels are coming for me. ' ' ' 



ROSES AND LILIES. 

The ruddy rose, amid the thorns 
And leaflets green which she adorns ; 
Sustains her charm, preserves her grace, 
And heavenward lifts her lovely face. 

Although her rough companions pierce, 
With lances keen and daggers fierce. 
The rose unsullied lives and dies 
As do the brave, the true, the wise. 

And though in life one oft receives 

A pang that sorely, sadly grieves, 

'Tis sweet to know that roses bloom 

Midst winds and rain and thorns and gloom. 



In Memoriam 







^'^..-'*"' I ;'*';.* 




PROF. MCELROY'S GRAVE 



Anonymous 123 

From out their bosoms pure as snow, 
The lilies of the valley ^row ; 
Their leaves are still ; their heads they bow, 
As if to heaven they make a vow. 

Since from the heart the actions grow, 
A duty to ourselves we owe. 
To do the right, and that in love. 
Though fading here to bloom above. 

The rose adds beauty to her thorns ; 

The lily pastures green adorns ; 

The world conceals its faults to please, 

While innocence and lilies abound in the leas. 

Aromas from these flowers unite. 
And lure our prayers to yonder height, 
Where mingling in sweet bliss and praise — 
Enriching heaven through endless days. 

Bloom on, bloom on, thou lily pale, 
In meadow green and fertile vale; 
Thine own soft colors give to thee 
A tender look of modesty. 

Blush on, blush on, thou ruddy rose ; 
Thy crimson face with beauty glows; 
Pure symbol thou of a sinless breast. 
Where truth and peace, like angels rest. 



E. B. McELROY. 

Professor E. B. McElroy, who served three terms as 
State Superintendent of Public Instruction of Oregon, 
and held the chair of English in the Oregon Agricultural 
College, also in the University of Oregon, died at his 
home in Eugene, May 4, 1901, and was buried in the 
Odd Fellow's Cemetery near Corvallis on the following 
Sunday. On the ensuing Decoration Day a eulogy was 



124 Oregon. Literature 

delivered before Ellsworth Post, G. A. R., of Corvallis, 
from which the following extract was taken : 

The McElroy Eulogy. 

Near the home of Professor McElroy in the City of 
Eugene, there is a neat church, built on a stone founda- 
tion thickly studded with marks of pebbly white. Upon 
approaching the building, however, the stones prove to 
be ancient cemeteries, filled with shells of animals which 
lived long ago upon the shore of some forgotten sea ; and 
here and there you may observe the traces left by the 
waves, the tracks of birds that walked along the sand 
one day, and the print of the leaf that fell and lay there. 
Within a million years or more the shore hardened into 
rock, and the rock like storied urn has held every trace 
throughout succeeding centuries. In like manner will 
be preserved the work of Professor McElroy, who has 
been so active in the promotion of Oregon public schools, 
doing those things and exerting those influences that 
thousands of children now living and thousands of 
children belonging to generations yet unborn will take 
permanently into their lives. 

What is taken into men's lives leaves its lasting im- 
pressions—more enduring than time, more precious than 
shell or leaf or templed stone ; for a useful life with its 
hallowed influences goes forth in a thousand unseen 
meanderings to the winds of the earth, forever and for- 
ever. Yet the man is even greater than his influence or 
his handiwoi'k. The Bible reveals it, science teaches it, 
experience proclaims it, the learned and unlearned be- 
lieve it. Therefore, if the shell of an animal from the 
palaces of the deep exist a thousand or a million years 
to adorn a temple for a man to worship in that his life 
may expand into a nobler, purer and more exalted char- 
acter, how much longer will survive that man of worth 
and influence for whom the silent shell was created? 

When the superstructure of the temple has decayed, 
time and storm have worn away the historic foundation, 
the shells have been exposed to view, have crumbled and 
vanished forever, and man has forgotten even the edifice 



Anonymous 125 

where once multitudes assembled for worship, the en- 
during work of the Oregon Educator will live and be 
more beautiful as it grows to assume nobler proportions. 
And centuries hence when the school house and the 
chapel will have largely accomplished their mission, when 
literature has winged her flight to the western shores of 
America, and scholars have made classic the story of 
Oregon, then teachers and students will make pilgrim- 
ages to the shrine on yon little hill where a pathway will 
be worn across the green to the grave of him we love. 
When the little oak which shelters that hallowed spot 
shall have older grown, fallen and been forgotten, kind 
hands will gently smooth the sod and plant a vine by the 
grassy mound where we laid him. There amidst quietude 
and pensiveness many a flower will be plucked as a 
memento, and many a prayer breathed at the last resting 
place of him who contributed his best endeavors to the 
establishment of common schools : and the pilgrims, Avhen 
they return to their homes, will resume their labors with 
renewed determination to emulate the noble qualities 
found in their fellow beings. Flowers will bloom as 
beautiful and the birdsong be as gay, men build and 
occupy, the earth swing through space as safely as if in 
the hand of God, and the sun, moon and stars sustain 
their glory then as now; but the undimmed lamp of 
learning which our benefactor lifted to the Oregon school 
house spire will shine with increasing effulgence and 
with glory moi-e resplendent, illuminating the i^athway 
of men. brightening their future and blessing their 
labors: and the world ever changing, ever improving, 
ever growing heavenly will be better for the life of this 
educator, patriot and gentleman, who gave the choicest 
within him for the betterment of mankind. 



Sidney H. Marsh 

A PLEA FOR RELIGIOUS INSTRUCTION IN 
COLLEGES AND UNIVERSITIES. 

{A71 extract from tJte inaugural address of Sidney H. 
Marsh, President of Pacific University, Forest Grove, 
Oregon. ) 

There is a necessity which neither profits nor pleasure 
can satisfy, and for which all art and science are inade- 
quate. It is this want that true and genuine learning 
would seek to satisfy. We need, as rational and ac- 
countable beings, surrounded by the fogs of sinful ignor- 
ance, a light that shall dispel darkness. Lost like a 
traveller amid the tangled jungles of tropical regions, we 
need a guide to the mountain summi's and the open 
ways. We need a knowledge of ourselves and our cir- 
cumstances, of men and things. We need the light that 
investigations into the laws of language and laws of 
thought may perchance give us. We need to know what 
principles, and whence, have governed men in divers 
countries and different ages, and under varied circum- 
stances; perhaps from such a study of history we may 
better know ourselves. These studies are indeed valuable 
for other ends, but chiefly because they tend to satisfy the 
craving thirst for knowledge, which our souls demand, 
not for their pleasure, or temporary happiness, but for 
their permanent well-being. I know that there is much 
thought and intellectual activity which does not, and 
cannot satisfy these spiritual cravings, which is a wander- 
ing of the intellect to and fro in the earth without any 
ascension above it. There is much acquisition that is not 
true knowledge, much theorizing that does not really in- 
crease the insight. The history of literary men is full 
of evidence of misspent power, power misspent for the 
great purposes of thought, though not uniruitful per- 



Sidney H. Marsh 127 

haps in inferior, temporary and tonii)oral good. AVe have 
painful evidences of the unsatisfactoriness of thought 
not rightly directed in minds delicately organized, where 
the cause of need was perhaps obscurely felt, where the 
insufficiency of all their efforts wrung tears and groans, 
clothed though they were in the most lovely garb of 
imagination and poetry. Such spirits have felt the in- 
aptness of their own theories as an increase of their suf- 
ferings and want. Their own thoughts have thus re- 
turned to sHng them, and driven like the daug^^er of 
Inachus, they have sought in vain during a life of flight, 
a Prometheus to reveal a future release from their suffer- 
ings. Such have been many among the Germans, who 
have spent a life in theorizing, and. although ever un- 
satisfied with their own efforts, have still been compelled 
to theorize right on. Such have been many among the 
English, such, many among our own people, who like 
Shelly and Keats, most sad examples, were "pard-like 
spirits, beautiful and swift," who " Acteeon-like fled far 
astray, and as they wandered o'er the world's wilderness, 
their own thoughts along the rugged way pursued like 
raging hounds their father and their prey." But such 
misdirections of power, such consequent uselessness of 
knowledge for all its higher ends, far from disproving 
its spiritual purpose, indicate rather the connection, the 
dependence unon, the subservience of the intellect, con- 
sidered as a faculty, to the spirit and its wants. For 
without some spiritual initiative, all thought in the 
higher departments has been ineffectual, and a life spent 
in theorizing has produced no enduring results. 



John Buchanan 

VALUE OF FRIENDSHIP. 

I care not for station, I care not for wealth, 

I care not for honors nor fame ; 
I pray for the blessings of freedom and health, 

And friends 1hat are worthy the name. 
Friends that are loyal, friends that are true. 

Till life's fitful journey shall end; 
There's no other treasure, for treasures are few, 

So dear as a true-hearted friend. 

I fear not an enemy's \engeful attack, 

I fear not the trouble he sends -. 
With Truth for my armor and fi-i(Mi(ls at my 1)aek— 

A few loved, congenial friends. 
A true friend's a treasure I value far more 

Than treasures in nuggets or dust ; 
Let others choose riches abundant in store, 

I'm rich with a friend I can trust. 

THE WILLAMETTE. 

Let others incline to sing of the Rhine, 

Or of Hudson's fairy dells; 
I sing of a stream that flows on like a dream 

To the tune of wedding bells. 
For of all the streams "neath the sun's bright beams, 

The Willamette is dearest to me, 
Which springs from repose in a prison of snows, 

And joyously bounds to the sea. 

I hail with delight that river so bright, 

Which cheerily flows along; 
And ever the strain of a glad refrain, 

I hear in its merry song. 
Far dearest of all the rivers of earth, 

Is that fair river to me. 
And brightly it flows from the region of snows, 

Till lost in the arms of the sea. 




JOHN BURNETT 



John Burnett 

John Burnett came to Coi'vallis in 1858 ; was admitted 
to the har in 1860, since which time until his death (in 
1900) he was actively engaged in his profession. He 
was elected Presidential Elector in 1865; Associate 
Justice of the Supreme Court of the state in 1874; ap- 
pointed Judge of the Second Judicial District; and in 
1878 he was elected Senator from Benton County. Judge 
Burnett was a self-made man. Being a man of the 
people he interested himself in all public enterprises, 
local or general ; and it was a part of his creed to re- 
ligiously guard alike the interests of the opulent and tlie 
humble. Inclined to be strongly intellectual, he was 
also very sympathetic; hence he easily enjoyed the dis- 
tinction of being classed among the ablest public speakers 
of the state, both as an advocate at the bar and as a 
popular orator on other public occasions. 

THE ALBANY ORATION. 

{Extract from an oration delivered by Judge John Bur- 
nett, at Albany, Oregon, July 4, 1878.) 

Many trials and perils have environed the good ship 
of state since she was first launched, bu^ each trial has 
only served to show her strength and durability, and the 
skill of her architects. The War of 1812 proved our 
ability, in our infancy, to cope with one of the first mili- 
tary powers on the globe, and in the crowning victory at 
New Orleans to defeat the men who afterwards at 
Waterloo broke the military power of France and pros- 
trated the great Napoleon at the feet of the British Lion. 
In the war with Mexico we proved to the world our 
ability to protect our citizens from insult, let it come 
from what quarter it may, and conquered a peace by the 
powers of American arms. The courage and heroism of 
American soldiers as proven upon every battle field 



180 ()r((j(iii Lilcnil Hr<: 

from Vera Cm/ to the City of Mexico adds another 
briii'lit pa^'e to American history. The rebellion of 1861, 
unjust and causeless as it was, was the greatest strain 
upon our Government to which it had ever been sub- 
jected. It was the crucial test, the sunken reef, upon 
which has been wrecked every Republic that has pre- 
ceded us. 

When the war of 1861 first began, the crown-heads of 
Europe clapped their hands in glee, and prophesied dire 
calamity to the American Republic. They said to us, 
"You cannot carry on a war. You have no army. 
You can't make soldiers like Europe has." But on a 
line of battle extending over a period of less than five 
years, more than two million and a half of men had been 
trained to the most efificient soldiery on the globe. Then 
they opened their eyes and admitted that our people 
made good soldiers. 

General Sheridan said, on coming back from the great 
battle of Sedan, that he saw no fighting equal to the 
fighting of Ajtnerican citizens. When the war closed they 
said, "You have a vast army, that must be admitted, but 
when you come to disband them you will have trouble. 
They will carry the morals of the soldiers' camp into 
your villages and towns, and you will have riots and 
conspiracies." But two millions and a half of men 
melted away from the battle— went as quietly as the 
drops of snow in spring melt, and every flake turns to 
working drops of dew that grasped the flower, the grass, 
the vine, the shrub, the tree. There never has been one 
riot, there never has been one conspiracy. We have never 
had any difificulty w^hatever with our disbanded soldiery. 
They have proved that, though having been brought up 
in civil life, they were competent ^o perform military 
services of the highest character, and then they all weiil 
back to citizenship again, and bore witness to the world 
that they loved the duties of the citizen more than the 
duties of the soldier. 

Ah! said Europe, you are still bound to be ruined by 
your war, for nothwithstanding you marshalled an army 
in a few years from the private walks of life that in size 
and efficiency was the wonder and admiration of the 



Juh)i Burnett 131 

world, and before which the armies of Xerxes, Hannibal 
and Napoleon sink into insignificance, and notwithstand- 
ing the fact that this great army was disbanded at the 
close of a successful war and melted away among the 
people from whence they came, leaving no trace of their 
organization except the splendid victories they gained 
and the magnificent peace they conquered, yet you have 
got to pay a debt that will tax your people beyond all 
endurance. Besides all this waste of life and expenditure 
of property there is six thousand millions of dollars that 
stands against you. Six thousand millions ! Your people 
will never bear taxation. 

What are the facts? All of that debt that could be 
reached has been paid, principal and interest, in gold 
coin. Another thing connected with the late Civil War 
that is hard for foreign nations to understand, is the 
rapid restoration of good fraternal feelings between all 
sections of the country, which has been going en ever 
since the surrender at Appomattox, until now on this 
day, the people will be gathered together in every city, 
town and neighborhood in this broad land, from the 
frozen regions of Alaska to the everglades of Florida, 
and from the pine-clad hills of INIaine to where rolls the 
Oregon, to rehearse the story of the valor of a common 
ancestry in the heroes of '76, and renew their devotion 
to an unbroken and glorious union. 

I join in that grand refrain and I am proud to lend 
my voice to swell the anthem as it goes up to heaven 
from thousands of throats of free men — "Liberty and 
union, now and forever, one and iuseparal)le. " Such a 
condition of affairs would be impossible under any other 
form of government. At the close of the war there were 
no attainders, no confiscations, no executions. The 
President of the United States had enforced obedience 
to the constitution and laws and the argument of the 
great Webster in the United States Senate, in answer to 
Calhoun and Hayne, was as potent a weapon in pre- 
serving the Union as the sword of General Grant. 

All of these things should inspire us on this day above 
all others with a more exalted idea and a more impas- 
sioned devotion and faith in our countrv. 



132 OrctjoH Lil( ml II re 

EXTRACTS. 

The roiir and smoke of battle till tlie atmosphere and 
Lexington, Concord and Bunker Hill announce that the 
American Revolution is fully inaugurated. We pass on 
a few years and the battle of Yorktown brings the strug- 
gle for American independence to a successful close. The 
genius of Washington ascends to the clear upper sky 
to preside over the child of Columbus. Under his 
guiding hand and influence the fruits of the War foi- 
Independence were preserved and a government finally 
framed that has excited the envy and admiration of the 
whole world. 

Seasons of sorrow make all the \v( rid akin and open 
the fountains of the best feelings of the human heart. 

We seldom think of the great event of death till the 
shadow falls across our own pathway, hiding from our 
eyes the faces of loved ones whose loving smile was the 
sunlight of our existence. This severing of earthly ties 
is the greatest trial we have in this life; and as link 
after link slips away from love's chain, we are led to feel 
more and more that this is not our abiding place. There 
are very few who can look around and say. "My heart's 
treasures are all here." 

With us the reign of the common people is supreme. 
Public sentiment informed and instructed by an inde- 
pendent, able and fearless press will correct as far as 
possible the evils that afflict the body politic ; for though 
"She travel wi+h a leaden heel, she strikes with an iron 
hand." 



B. F. Irvine 

THE MAST ASHORE. 

Did the ship go down- What tale concealed 

Of wreck and death, lies here with thee'] 
What hapless victims loud appealed 

To Him for help that night at sea? 
Did lightning bolts, and winds and waves, 

In awful mood, the good ship beat — 
Aye, beat till all on board found graves, 

With billows for a winding sheet? 

Did the ship go down? Perhaps her fate 

Is told in phantom ship that oft 
The ocean roves; her sails wide set. 

And ghostly sailors staring 'loft 
Where perching raven croaks of doom; 

And hollow wail and storm-blown cry 
Of help are heard through gathering gloom. 

As though once more that night were nigh. 

Did the ship go down? Not e'en her name 

Is known. Nor those who sailed and died ; 
Nor whither bound, nor whence they came, 

Nor where in all the ocean wide 
They went to doom. AVe know no more 

Than this— this mutely 1old by thee— 
They proudly sailed for distant shore, 

And now they sleep beneath the sea. 

Yes, the ship went down. All ships go down 

When Time and Tide command. E 'en men 
Who voyage life with hopes full-blown. 

Go down. They sail a day, and then 
The billow-beats of vice and strife 

Unship the masts and sweep the decks. 
Till beacli that bounds the sea of life 

Is strewn with melancholy wrecks. 



1-14 Oregon Literature 

THE FOUR-YEAR-OLD. 

Red lips, curved with a roguish air; 
Sun-tint curls like the cupids wear; 
Eyes that laugh with a mischief rare, 

And his face with gladness beaming. 
Pockets crammed with his childhood toys; 
House upset with his endless noise ; 
Four years old, and a king of boys, 

With his days in sunshine streaming. 



Paints with mud on a spotless wall ; 
Ties tin cans to the dogs that call ; 
Wades the pond till, with slip and fall. 

Little head and heels go under. 
Pounds and bangs at a fastened door; 
Scatters toys on a tidy floor; 
Laughs out loud ere the prayers are o'er, 

And is chided for his blunder. 



Marble slab in the churchyard lone ; 
Sleeping lamb on the silent stone; 
Drooping flowers on the new mound strewn, 

Where the four-year-old lies sleeping. 
Childhood chair that the boy loved best ; 
Empty shoe that the wee foot pressed ; 
Anguished heart in a mother's breast, 

As she sits beside them, weeping. 

Neighbor boys loved the four-year-old ; 
Sit in tears Avhen his fate is told; 
Whisper low of the churchyard mold. 

Where the playmate lost, lies sleeping. 
Swing no more on the back-yard gate ; 
Noisy tread of the boyish feet 
Heard no more down the silent street, 

Where the mother lone sits weeping. 



Matthew P. Deachi 135 

Each dark cloud has a lining bright ; 
Sweet morn dawns on the darkest night; 
Far up there, in the mystic light, 

Is a scene for grief beguiling. 
Eyes that laugh with a mischief bold ; 
Fair head crowned with its curls of gold ; 
Sweet boy face of the four-year-old, 

Is from heaven's window smiling. 



Matthew P. Deady 

THE AMERICANDSETTLER. 

The American settler was always animated — often it 
may have been unconsciously — with the heroic thought 
that he was pre-eminently engaged in reclaiming the 
wilderness — building a home — founding an American 
state and extending the area of liberty. He had visions, 
iiowever dimly seen, that he was here to do for this coun- 
try what his ancestors had done for savage England cen- 
turies before — to plant a community which in due time 
should grow and ripen into one of the great sisterhood 
of Anglo-American states, wherein the language of the 
Bible, Shakespeare and ^lilton should be spoken by mil- 
lions then unborn, and the law of Magna Charta and 
Westminster Hall be the bulwark of liberty and the but- 
tress of order for generations to come. 



William P. Lord 

EDUCATION. 

{Extract frmn Governor William P. Lord's Message to 
the Nineteoith h'egiihir Session of I lie Legislative As- 
sembly of Oregon.) 

Common Schools. 

The general dift'iisiun of knowledge is the best guar- 
anty of the stability of republican institutions. Their 
safety and prosperity depend on tlie spread of knov/1- 
edge among the masses. The fact is now recognized that 
intelligence in communities is essential to social progress 
and political reform, is conducive to sobriety and in- 
dustry, and serves to establish justice and promote the 
public interests. As a means of disseminating intelli- 
gence, our common schools are most active and potent 
factors. There are no other instrumentalities compar- 
able with them for the accomplishment of this object. 
They seek to increase the general average of human in- 
telligence by the education of the rising generation, and 
in this way to elevate the citizen and strengthen the 
state. The state cannot neglect its educational interests, 
without loss of public intelligence and detriment to its 
well being. 

Normal Schools. 

The object of the normal schools is to furnish teachers 
for our common schools. The scope of their work in- 
cludes special instruction in those branches of education 
which are taught in the public schools, and thorough 
training in the science of teaching. The effect of their 
work, when successfully prosecuted, is to increase the 
usefulness of the teacher and elevate the standard of 
our public schools. Our normal schools are a useful 
and indispensable adjunct to our common school system. 



William P. Lord 137 

Agricultttral College. 

It is the life and prosperity of our country to keep 
up and maintain its institutions, dedicated to the work 
of education in all its departments, to their utmost ef- 
ficiency, although it may require some expenditure of 
the public revenue. Our people, to a large extent, are 
engaged in agricultural and industrial pursuits. A 
sound, practical education along the lines of these 
callings or vocations is a need of our people, and its 
benefits to the state cannot be overestimated. To fill 
this want is the object of our Agricultural College, in 
our educational system. Its chief end and aim is to give 
its students a thorough agricultural and mechanical 
training, as distinct from college or university courses. 
It is a different education in its practical results from a 
university education, but is not in conflict with it. In 
this age wlien so many industrial projects require 
mechanical or scientific education for their management, 
the Agricultural College aifords excellent opportunities 
for acquiring such an education. 

University. 

There are those who think our University should not re- 
ceive financial support, while there are others who think 
it is bad policy and worse economy to withhold from it 
any needed aid. It is no doubt true that taxation is for 
the general benefit, and that objects of its fostering care 
should conserve the public good. But the fact that com- 
paratively few can enjoy the University's advantages 
is not conclusive that its benefits are not for the public 
welfare. If the University is an essential part of our 
educational system, in conducing to the progress and 
development of our state, and to the prosperity and in- 
tellectual greatness of the people, it is of general benefit 
and entitled to receive public support. The University 
aims to furnish such an education as will enable those— 
always the few— who possess the requisite abilities, to 
become useful citizens and leaders of thought in the pro- 
fessions, in statesmanship, in the various branches of 
learning, in philanthrophy, and works of charity, in pro- 



138 Oregon Literaiure 

moting industrial projects and eonductins: commercial 
enterprises, and in devising methods for the moral and 
political advancement of the people. Its existence is due 
to recognition of the fact that the state needs captains 
in every department of life, affecting human happiness 
and welfare, and that, as a means to this end, it should 
provide an institution whose course of study would lay 
the foundation to supply them. 



S. F. Chadwick 

A MAY DAY IN OREGON. 

Nature smiling through her rills, streams, hills, valleys 
and mountains, greets us this morning and welcomes us 
to partake of her ])ountiful hospitality. How beautiful 
she is. Clothed in her attractive hal)iliaments of spring; 
in her tender, strong, but gracious reproduction of every- 
thing in her kingdom for the sustenance of man. Here 
are flowers of every hue and description, filling the air 
with fragrance ; the woods and forests are made attrac- 
tive by the shrill notes of nature's sweet songsters. 
Spring, in all her beauty, like hope in its innocent full- 
ness, charms as it possesses us, filling us with the promise 
of offerings the mind craves, and bespeaks the approach 
of an abundant harvest for our physical well-being; a 
season of plenty for the husbandman, his fields, fiocks 
and herds; a season in which, with a light heart, he may 
go forth to the hills, valleys and fields and M^elcome this 
plenteous outpouring from the liberal hand of the Great 
Giver of all things. 1 



Samuel A. Clarke 

Samuel A. Clarke, author of the following poems, 
arrived in Oregon, from Ohio, in 1850. He edited the 
Oregonian during the last year of the war. He pub- 
lished the Salem Statesman in '68; after disposing of 
his interest in that journal, he purchased the Willamette 
Farmer in company with D. W. Craig. He now lives 
in Washington, D. C. The Native Son Magazine once 
said of Mr* Clarke : ' ' Since '62 he has commanded an 
enviable reputation as a writer. Hjis descriptive articles 
have received highest praise, his articles on history un- 
excelled, and his verse liked by all who care for rhyme. ' ' 

LIFE. 

There's nothing sadder than the years 

That have no useful trend ; 
There's naught that weakens like the tears 

The heart cannot defend ; 
There's nothing fainter than the hope 

That has no polar star. 
Nor narrower than must be the scope 

That reaches out too far. 

The springtime's bud will end in bloom. 

Will burst and be the rose; 
The early summer's rare perfume 

Is born of winter snows. 
The harvest-time's uncounted wealth — 

The autumn's bend of fruit — 
Teach how the winter works by stealth 

When nature seems so mute. 

And ever, as the dawning glows, 

The morning star grows dim 
Beside the ray the sun god throws 

Across the mountain's brim. 



140 Orcfjon LUeralure 

We lose the lesser in the great— 

The day is fairly won 
When all the heaven, consecrate, 

Worships the risen sun. 

By love and faith, and hope and light, 

The bud, the leaf, the flower— 
The winter's trust, the spring's delight, 

The summer's fruiting hour— 
These make the full and rounded year, 

And years make life supreme. 
Through which we know the smile, the tear ; 

To sow, to reap, to dream. 

BY THE WAYSIDE. 

I gathered some weeds by the wayside— 
Weeds that had blossomed to flowers— 

Sweet clovers, late daisies and goldenrods— 
New bathed by the midsummer showers : 

As I did it the flash of the lightning 
Lent its glow to the evening hours. 

I grouped them with i-ed of the clover 
Contrasting with daisies white; 

The goldenrod's glow bending over 
Like flashes of ligh'ning Hight; 

Any eye then could discover 
They made a bouquet of delight. 

What then to do with this bloom-life, 
Thus gathered by idling hands? 

In the great city halls was a fair one 
Sat waiting for fate's connnands ; 

I gave them to her, and she twined them 
In the midst of her sun-gold bands. 

They had beauty enough mid the stray ings 
That grew by the tangled wayside; 

They shone with bright look as the playings 
And flashes of lightnings betide; 

But twined in her tresses betrayed there 
The charm of her own grace and pride. 



Sayniicl A. Clarhc 141 

The frajjrance and bloom of the wildwood 
Have ever known charm for lis all ; 

The wandering footsteps of childhood 
May <;ather them ere they fall ; 

But supremer jjrraces of womanhood 
Hold even the wild flower in thrall. 

SNOW DROP MEMORIES. 

It was on the twenty-third of February. 1892, the fortieth 
anniversary of our wedding' day. that I came from the orchard 
and having staid at the old home over night, starte.d to go to 
Portland, at early day, when I saw. under the 'bay window, a 
bunch of snow drops in bloom, that had heen planted 'by my 
wife many years before. She had been dead three years. I 
gathered several and that evening, as retiring at the Esmond, 
I sat on the bed's edge and wrote the following verse: 

Years, many a one, 

Have come and gone : 
Their fears, their hopes have sped : 

Since in life's down. 

In yonder town. 
With holy vows we wed. 

Our hopes were high 

As she and I 
Made home upon this hill : 

In sunny hours 

She planted flowers 
That tell me of her still. 

As March winds sweep 

Her snow drops peep 
Through drifts of fallen leaves: 

They love to bloom 

When winter's gloom 
Is nursing harvest sheaves. 

Does she who trod 

This garden sod 
To tend the tiny flower, 

Transplanted to 

Scenes ever new 
Forget her evening hour? 



142 Oregon Literature 

The city's hum 
Since then has come — 

It climbs the hill today : 
Our young have tiown — 
They seek their own : 

My locks are turned to grey. 

The old home spot 

Is neai* forgot— 
'Tis lonely; she's not here; 

But snow drops still 

Bloom on the hill 
As March winds bring them cheer, 

Soon hyacinths 

And lulips tints 
Of purple, pearl and gold. 

On this parterre 

Will grace confer 
And all spring's hues unfold. 

And, later still 

1lie daffodil, 
The lilac, and the rose, 

Will— one by one— 

To warmer sun 
Give greeting: But who knows, 

If that fond hand. 
At whose command 

This spot to beauty grew. 
In fairer sphere 
Than we know here, 

Tends flowers earth never knew. 



Lischen M. Miller 

THE HAUNTED LIGHT. 

AT NEWPORT BY THE SEA. 




Situated at Yaqnina, on 
the coast of Oregon, is an 
old, deserted lig^hthouse. 
It stands upon a prom- 
ontory that juts out di- 
vidin<i- the bay from the 
ocean, and is exposed to 
every wind that blows. 
Its weather-beaten walls 
are wrapped in mystery. 
Of an afternoon when the 
fog comes drifting in from 
the sea and completely en- 
velopes the lighthouse and 
then stops in its course 
as if its object had been 
attained, it is the lone- 
liest place in the world. 
At such times those who 
chance to be in the vicin- 
ity hear a moaning sound 
like the cry of one in pain, 
and sometimes a frenzied 
call for help pierces the 
death-like stillness of the 
waning day. Far out at 
sea, ships passing in the 
night are often guided in 
their course by a light 
that gleams from the lan- 
tern-tower where no lamp 
is ever trimmed. 



114 Oj-((J()h 1jII( rai lire 

In the days when Newport was but a handful of 
cabins, roughly built, and flanked by an Indian camp, 
across the bai- there sailed a sloop, grotesquely rigp^ed 
and without a name. The ai'rival of a vessel was a rare 
event, and by the time the straiifjer had dropped anchor 
abreast the village the whole population were gathered 
on the strip of sandy beach to welcome her. She was 
manned by a swarthy crew, and her skipper was a 
beetle-browed ruffian with a scar across his cheek from 
mouth to ear. A boat was lowered, and in it a man 
about forty years of age, and a young girl, w(n-(^ rowed 
ashore. The man was tall and dark, and his manner 
and speech indicated gentle breeding. He explained 
that the sloop's water casks were emnty, and was di- 
rected to the spring that poured down the face of the 
yellow sandstone clifiP a few yards up the beach. Issu- 
ing instructions in some heathenish, unfamiliar tongue 
to the boatmen, he devoted himself to asking and an- 
swering questions. The slo( p was bound down the coast 
to Coos Bay. She had encountered rough weather off 
the Columbia River bar, and had been driven far out of 
her course. To the young lady, his daughter, the voyage 
proved most trying. She was not a good sailor. If, 
therefore, accommodations could be secured, he wished 
to leave her ashore until th(^ return of the sloop a fort- 
night later. 

The landlady of the " " had a room to spare, 

and by the time the wat(n' casks were filled, arrangements 
had been completed which resulted in the transfer of the 
fair traveler's luggage from the sloop to the "hotel." 
The father bade his daughter an aff'ectionate adieu, and 
was rowed back to 1he vessel, which at once weighed 
anchor and sailed away in the golden dusk of the sum- 
mer evening. 

Muriel, that was the name she gave, Muriel Trevenard, 
was a delicate-looking, fair-haired girl still in her teens, 
very sweet and sunny-tenqiered. She seemed to take 
kindly to her new environment, accepting its rude in- 
conveniences as a matter of course, though all her own 
belongings testified to the fact that she was accustomed 



LiscJicn 31. Miller 145 

to the refinements and even luxuries of civilization. She 
spent many hours each day idlinjir with a sketch block 
and pencil in the grassy hollow in the hill, seaward from 
the town, so well known to pleasure-seekers of today, or 
strolled upon the beach or over the wind-swept uplands. 
The fortnight lengthened to a month and yet no sign 
of the sloop, or any sail rose above the horizon to 
south ward - 

"You've no cause to worry," said the landlady. 
"Your father's safe enough. No rough weather since 
he sailed, and as for time— a ship's time is as uncertain 
as a woman's temper, I've heard my own father say." 

"Oh I am not anxious," replied Muriel, "not in the 
least." 

It was in August that a party of pU'asui'e-seekers came 
over the Coast Range and pitched their tents in the 
grassy hollow. They were a merry company, and they 
were not long in discovering Muriel. 

"Such a pretty girl," exclaimed Cora May, who was 
herself so fair that she could afford to be generous. "I 
am sure she does not belong to anybody about here. We 
must coax her to come to our camp." 

But the girl needed little coaxing. She found these 
light-hearted young people a pleasant interruption, and 
she was enthusiastically welcomed by all, young and old 
alike. She joined them in their ceaseless excursions, and 
made one of the group that gathered nightly around the 
camp fire. There was one, a rather serious-minded 
youth, who speedily constituted himself her cavalier. He 
was always at hand to help her into the boat, to bait her 
hook when they went fishing, and to carry her shawl, 
or book or sketch block, and she accepted these attentions 
as she seemed to accept all else, naturally and sweetly. 

The Cape Foulweather light had .iust been completed, 
and the house upon the bluff above Newport was de- 
serted. Some members of the camping party proposed 
one Sunday afternoon that they pay it a visit. 

"We have seen everything else there is to see," re- 
marked Cora May. 

"It is just an ordinary house with a lantern on top," 



140 Orcguii Literature 

objected Muriel. "You can e:et a i,'ood view of it from 
the bay. Besides it is probably locked up." 

"Somebody has the key. We can soon find out who," 
said Harold Welch. "And we haven't anything else 
to do." 

Accordingly they set out in a body to find the key. 
It was in the possession of the landlady's husband who 
had been appointed to look after the premises. He said 
he had not been up there lately, and seemed surprised 
after a mild fashion that any one should feel an interest 
in an empty house, but he directed them how to reach it. 

"You go up that trail to the top of the hill and you'll 
strike the road, but you won't find anything worth 
seeing after you get there. It aint anywhere like the 
new light." 

With much merry talk and laughter they climbed the 
hill and found the road, a smooth and narrow avenue 
overshadowed by dark, young pines winding along the 
hill-top to the rear of the house. 

It stood in a small enclosure bare of vegetation. The 
sand was piled in little wind-swept heaps against the 
board fence. There was a walk paved with brick, lead- 
ing from the gate around to the front where two or 
three steps went up to a scpiare porch with seats on 
either side. Harold AAa4ch unlocked the door, and they 
went into the empty hall that echoed dismally to the 
sound of human voices. Rooms opened from this hall- 
way on either hand and in the "L" at the back were 
the kitchen storerooms and pantry, a door that gave 
egress to a narrow veranda, and another shutting off 
the cellar. At the rear of the hall the stairs led up to 
the second floor, which was divided like the first into 
plain, square rooms. But the stairway went on, winding 
up to a small landing where a window looked out to 
northward, and from which a little room, evidently a 
linen closet, opened opposite the window. There was 
nothing extraordinary about this closet at the first 
glance. It was well furnished with shelves and drawers, 
and its only unoccupied wall space was finished with 
a simple wainscoting. 

"Why," cried one, as they crowded the landing and 



Lischcn 31. Miller 147 

overflowed into Ihe closet, "this house set'iiis to be fallino; 
to pieces." He pulled at a section of the wainscote and 
it came awav in his hand. "Hello! what's this? Iron 
walls?" 

"It's hollow," said another, tappin^r the smooth black 
surface disclosed by the removal of the panel. 

"So it is," cried the first speaker. "I wonder what's 
behind it? Why it opens!" It was a heavy piece of 
sheet iron about three feet square. Hp moved it to one 
side, set it against the wall, and peered into the aperture. 

"How mysterious!" exclaimed Muriel, leaning for- 
ward to look into the dark closet, whose height and 
depth exactly corresponded to the dimensions of the 
panel. It went straight back some six or eight feet and 
then dropped abruptly into what seemed a soundless 
well. One, more curious than the rest, crawled in and 
threw down, lighted bits of paper. 

"It goes to the bottom of the sea," he declared, as he 
backed out and brushed the dust from his clothes. "Who 
knows what it is, or why it was built?" 

"Smugglers," suggested somebody, and they all 
laughed, though there was nothing particularly humor- 
ous in the remark. But they were strangely nervous 
and excited. There was something uncanny in the at- 
mosphere of this deserted dwelling that oppressed them 
with an unaccountable sense of dread. They hurried 
out, leaving the dark closet open, and climbed up into 
the lantern-tower where no lamp has been lighted these 
many years. 

The afternoon, which had been flooded with sunshine, 
was waning in a mist that swept in from the sea and 
muffled the world in dull grey. 

"Let us go home," cried Cora May. "If it were clear 
we might see almost to China from this tower, but the 
fog makes me lonesome." 

So they clambered down the iron ladder and descend- 
ing the stairs, passed out through the lower hall into the 
grey fog. Harold Welch stopped to lock the door, and 
Muriel waited for him at the foot of the steps. The 
lock was rustv, and he had trouble with the key. By 



148 Oregon Literature 

the time he joined her the rest of the party had dis- 
appeared around the house. 

"You are kind to wait for me," said he, as they 
caught step on the brick pavement and moved forward. 
But Muriel laid her hand upon his arm. 

"I must go back," she said. "I— I— dropped my 
handkerchief in— the— hall upstairs, I must go back and 
get it." 

They remounted the steps, and Welch unlocked the 
door and let her pass in. But when he would have fol- 
lowed, she stopped him imperiously. 

"I am going alone," she said. "You are not to wait. 
Lock the door and go on. I will come out through the 
kitchen." He objected, but she was obstinate, and, 
perhaps because her lightest wish was beginning to be 
his law of life, he reluctantly obeyed her. Again the 
key hung in the lock. This time it took him several 
minutes to release it. When he reached the rear of the 
house Muriel Avas nowhere to be seen. He called her 
two or three times and waited, but, receiving no reply, 
concluded that she had hurried out and joined the rest, 
whose voices came back to him from the avenue of pines. 
She had been nervous and irritable all the afternoon, 
so unlike herself that he had wondered more than once 
if she were ill, or weary of his close attendance. It oc- 
curred to him now that possibly she had taken this means 
to rid herself of his company. He hurried on, for it was 
growing cold, and the fog was thickening to a rain. He 
had just caught up with the stragglers of the party, and 
they were beginning to chaff him at being alone, when 
the sombre stillness of the darkening day was rent by a 
shriek so wild and wierd that they who heard it felt the 
blood freeze suddenly in their veins. They shrank in- 
voluntarily closer and looked at each other with blanched 
cheeks and startled eyes. Before anyone found voice 
it came again. This time it was a cry for help, thrice 
repeated in quick succession. 

"Muriel! Where is Muriel?" demanded Welch, his 
heart leaping in sudden fear. 

"Why you ought to know," cried Cora May. "We left 
her with you." 



Lischcn M. Miller 149 

They hurried toward the deserted house. 

"She went back to get her handkerchief," explained 
Welch, ' ' She told me not to wait, and I locked the door 
and came on." 

"Locked her in that horrid place? Why did you do 
it? "'exclaimed Cora, indignantly. 

"She said she would come out by way of the kitchen," 
replied he. 

"She could not. The door is locked, and the key is 
broken off in the lock," said another. "I noticed it when 
we were rummaging around in there." 

They began to call encouragingly, "Muriel, we are 
coming. Don't be afraid." But they got no reply. 

"Oh let us hurry," urged Cora, "perhaps she has 
fainted with fright." 

In a very few minutes they were pouring into the 
house and looking and calling through the lower rooms. 
Then upstairs, and there, upon the floor in the upper 
chamber, where the grey light came in through the un- 
curtained windows, they found a pool of warm, red 
blood. There were blood drops in the hall and on the 
stairs that led up to the landing, and in the linen closet 
they picked up a blood-stained handkerchief. But there 
was nothing else. The iron door had been replaced, and 
the panel in the wainscote closed, and try as they might, 
they could not open it. They were confronted by an 
apparent tragedy, appalled by a fearful mystery, and 
they could do nothing. They returned to the village 
and gave the alarm, and re-enforced, came back and re- 
newed the hopeless search with lanterns. They ran- 
sacked the house again and again from tower to cellar. 
They scoured the hills in the vain delusion that she 
might have escaped from the house and wandered off in 
the fog. But they found nothing, nor ever did, save the 
lilood drops on the stairs and the little handkerchief. 

' ' It will be a dreadful blow to her father, ' ' remarked 

the landlady of the " . " "I don 't want to be the 

one to break it to him." And she had her wish, for 
the sloop nor any of its crew ever again sailed into 
Yaquina Bay. As time went by, the story was forgotten 
by all but those who joined in that weary search for the 



150 Off (/oil Lilf rat lire 

missing girl. But to this day it is said the blood-stains 
are dark upon the tloor in that upper chamber. And 
one there was who carried the little handkerchief next 
to his heart till the hour of his own tragic death.— 
Pacific MontJily Magazine. 



Geo. L. Curry 

TROUBLE. 

With aching hearts we strive to bear our trouble, 

Though some surrender to the killing pain ; 
Life's harvest fields are full of wounding stubble, 

To prove the goodness of the gathered grain. 
With aching hearts we struggle on in sorrow, 

Seeking some comfort in our sorest need ; 
The dismal day may have a bright tomorrow, 

And all our troubles be as "precious seed." 
As precious seed within the heart's recesses. 

To germinate and grow to fruitage rare, 
Of patience, love, hope, faith and all that blesses. 

And forms the burden of our daily prayer. 
With aching heart we cling to heaven's evangels, 

The beautiful, the good, the true, the pure, 
Comnuining with us always like good angels. 

To help us in the suffering we endure. 
Indeed, to suffer and sus*^ain afflictions 

Is the experience which we all acquire ; 
Our tribulations Are the harsh restrictions 

To consummations we so much desire. 
With aching hearts life's battle still maintaining. 

The pain, the grief, and death we comprehend. 
As issues we accept without complaining. 

So weary are we for the end. 
Alas! so weary, longing for the ending, 

For that refreshing rest— that precious peace. 
That common heritage, past comprehending. 

When all the heart-aches shall forever cease. 



Dr. Thomas Condon 

Of all men Dr. Thomas Condon, author of "The Two 
Islands." has without doubt accumulated the largest 
fund of information touching the geology of Oregon. 
For a third of a century and more this apostle of science 
has been ste'adily exploring mountain and valley and 
plain gleaning knowledge, and has traversed every Ore- 
gon shore, examining the old sea-banks for the strata 
that lie one above the other like so many unfolded 
scrolls— scrolls on which strange things have been 
written by an unseen hand— age-marKed scrolls wdiich 
speak of the works and show the finger prints of Father 
Time. As a reward of patient research science has re- 
vealed to this student of nature the marvelous story of 
Oregon reaching back countless centuries before the land 
was visited by man. And the narrative, scientific but 
simple, has been produced in a volume in a style that 
appeals alike to the learned and to the unlearned ; young 
and old. Only in the one book is it given; but it is 
told so fully, it is safe to assert, one's knowledge of Ore- 
gon cannot be said to be complete till he has read the 
story of "The Two Islands" as written by Doctor 
Condon. 

THE DEVELOPMENT THEORY. 
AN EXTRACT. 

But a few years ago light, heat, electricity, chemical 
reactions and mechanical motion were supposed to be 
due to entirely separate acts of creation. It is now 
clearly seen that these and other physical forces are 
only separate links of one chain of underlying natural 
force. It is demonstrated that nothing of this under- 
lying force is ever wasted. The motion of a mill, of an 
arm. of a steam engine, occurs because heat or some 
other link of the chain is changed into motion. The 



152 Oregon Literature 

motion thus created expands itself by becoming again 
heat or electricity or some other form of the same chain 
of forces. Nothing of all this is now made or destroyed, 
not even wasted. 

These things are now the commonplace facts of sci- 
ence. The natural effect of them on human thought 
would be, that whereas we once thought God creaced 
light alone, we now know he must have created a wider 
fact of which light is only a part. And with scientific 
Christians this was the only effect the change produced. 
Would that it had been left to this ! 

How this view of the truth could lessen anyone's 
adoring reverence of the Infinite Source of all this wider 
force and profounder power is difficult to understand; 
that it should carry with it a tendency to atheism is in- 
credible, for somewhere in the long chain of sequences 
the Creator's power must come in. The normal effect 
upon our belief would be expressed by such a statemeni. 
as this: "I once believed Cod created a small factj I 
now see he must have created a whole system of facts 
at once." 

This tendency to wider, more generalized facts is the 
one characteristic of recent scientific experiments. Our 
thoughts must be adjusted to this current of things if 
we would keep our theology a working power among men. 

Still more plainly is this wider generalization marked 
in the domain of chemistry. In chemistry, as in other 
departments of science, experiments continually reveal 
other and wider facts and forces underlying our surface 
ones. 

The discoveries of late years through the use of the 
spectroscope have added greatly to this conviction. These 
show that the distant stars are composed of chemical 
elements like those of our own earth. This certainly 
gives one a sufficiently generalized idea of the nature of 
the materials out of which sun, moon and planets are 
made. If we consider these materials as we find them 
in the rocks around us we shall find evidence enough of 
development from single elements to complex eombina- 
tions. 

As a surface fact nothing can be more simple than a 



Henry 11. M'txxlirayd 1^^ 

piece of chalk, yet if you examine it closely yoii will 
find its simplicity to vanish and in the place of that 
simplicity a most complex combination of chemistry, his- 
tory and mineralogy. It tells of the lowly life of a 
company of animals existing in the deep regions of the 
ocean, milleniums ago, extracting the carbonate of lime 
from the waters around them and through the wonderful 
chemical forces of life converting this lime carbonate 
into bony skeletons which on the death of the animals 
were consigned to the deep oozy bed of the ocean to 
become chalk. It tells of a subsequent elevation of tnis 
ancient chalk bed into a mountain mass of a neighboring 
continent. How far from simple, either in time, in place 
or in chemistry, is this strange mixture of rock and of 
history ! 

Yet you may say of this piece of chalk, "God created 
it." So he did, but how? Evidently by a long process 
of development from simpler elements of time, force and 
material, to what you now find it. 



Henry H. Woodward 

Near where the Umpquas meet, "the veteran soldier- 
poet," Henry H. Woodward, has pitched his tent and 
sung his song. Quiet, homelike and peaceful are his 
haunts; sweet, tender and serene his song. A half 
century of travel and war and touch with men rings in 
the "Lyrics of the Umpqua." The spirit of his song is 
love and friendship and religion as influenced by the 
land and the sea; and he records a memorial to many a 
friend who lives in poetry but not in the history of men. 
It is true that he is neither a Shakespeare, a Milton, nor 
a Byron, but his writings prove to us that he has a good 
heart, that he upholds the right, and speaks a cheery 
word to every fellow traveler ; hence we sit doM^n content- 
edly under his melodies, little regarding the strain of his 
song or the march of its music. 



Mrs. S. Watson Hamilton 

On taking up a volume of Byron, the careful reader 
will feel that the author had chosen Edmund Spenser 
as his model. And while some of the proofs for his 
opinion may be so subtle as to baffle analysis, yet the 
inevitable conclusion will the that he is correct. So, in 
reading ' ' The Angel of the Covenant ' ' for the first time, 
the reader will feel that the authoress has taken Milton 
as her model, developed a theme, and then written the 
book with her Bible on her knee. "The Angel of the 
Covenant" is probably the longest religious epic written 
in Oregon. The peculiar nature of the subject and 
the lengthy treatment given it has destined the poem 
to resemble the "Paradise Lost," in that its number of 
admirers will pi-obably exceed its number of readers. It 
is not at all presumptuous to assert that the poem will 
live a century; hence it must l)e a satisfaction to believe 
that one's writings will go on preaching some immortal 
truth to the children of men long after the author has 
finished her work. 

Throughout the poem Mrs. Hamilton deals with stern 
religious truths as eloquent facts, and exhibits a de- 
votional spirit directed by that wisdom that comes from 
I)hilosophy and interpretation; her poems are therefore 
intellectual. She rarely alludes to nature, but, if she were 
to enjoy a bouquet of flowers, she would revel in their 
variety, arrangement and beauty, and be delighted with 
their fragrance, which would be poetical ; unconsciously 
she might go a step further and ask why are they beau- 
tiful. This would still be poetical. But when she begins 
to analyze their aromas to ascertain the kinds and the 
proportion of each that pleases her she enters a realm 
of investigation which causes most minds to think so 
intensely that the heart loses its opportunity to feel. 



E. ,Sf. M ('Com as 155 

Hence, at times the poein l)ecomes somewhat metaphysi- 
cal, and conse(|uently appreciated by those who read it 
more as mental than as spiritual food. It is worthy of 
a place on the center table of every Oregon home where 
relioious thought is given. 



E. S. McComas 

THE OLD PIONEERS. 

They have come from the valley, and from the mountains 

down, 
They are gathered from the country, from the city and 

the towni. 
I'hey came to swap reminiscences of time now on the 

wane, 
Of the anxious months of dangers, of "the trip across 

the plains." 
Their ranks are getting thinner and their forms are 

bending low, 
Their eyes are growing dimmer and their locks are white 

as snow, 
Give them every comfort, tho' they carry well their years, 
They are grand old men and women, these "Old Pio- 
neers. ' ' 

Let their annual reunions ccmtinue ever on 

Until the last old pilgrim among them is gone! 

They have sown the golden wheat where the camas once 
did grow, 

And the palace car now follows the trail the pack mule 
used to go. 

The school house takes the place of the Indian "AVick- 
eyup," 

And they who wrought the change deserve the "Golden 
Cup." 

Scatter flowers in their pathway, adown declining years, 

They are grand old men and women, these "Old Pio- 
neers. ' ' 



Blanche Fearing 

All peoples have had theii- blind bards who tjave the 
world some message that was withheld from those "who 
havinfj- eyes yet see not"; and we say this is a Homer 
who inspired the soldiery of the world, or an Ossian who 
made Scottish legends more precious, or a Milton who 
"undertook what no man ought to have undertaken, and 
did with it what no other man could have done" — de- 
scribed heaven. It would be presumptuous to claim that 
we have had either of these, but we have had a blind 
poetess who like a comet swept suddenly across our orbit. 
Her name was Lilian Blanche Fearing. No one knew 
whence she came or whither she went ; but some time in 
the quiet City of Rosburg she learned of a sh^^ping 
infant and left these lines, which may be found in her 
book entitled "The Sleeping World": 



LET HIM SLEEP. 

Oh, do not wake the little one, 
With flowing curl upon his face, 

Like strands of light dropped from the sun, 
And mingled there in golden grace ! 

Oh, tell him not the moments run 

Through life's frail fingers in swift chase! 
"Let him sleep, let him sleep!" 

There cometh a day when light is pain, 
AVhen he will lean his head away. 

And sunward hold his palm, to gain 
A respite from the glare of day ; 
For no fond lip will smile, and say, 
"Let him sleep, let him sleep!" 



B. J. Haivthoriie 157 

Hush! hush! wake not the child! 

Just now a li^^ht shone from within, 
And throu^'h his lips an angel smiled, 

Too fresh from heaven for grief to win; 
Oh, children are God's undefiled, 

Too fresh from heaven to dream of sin ! 
"Let him sleep, let him sleep!" 



B. J. Hawthorne 

UNIVERSAL EDUCATION. 

When many people at the same time manifest great 
interest in an 'object, a strong current of popular opinion 
sets in towards that object— an irresistible current. 
When the balance of ignorance in a community is greater 
than the balance of knowledge, it is certainly time that 
the current should be formed. Yes, even before the 
community begins to suffer for want of knowledge. 

The interest manifested in education by this country 
is an indication of our high appreciation of the necessity 
and benefits of schools. The schools are a power for 
good. Whatever a citizen can do to aid popular educa- 
tion, aids the development of the community in which 
he lives ; aids it materially as well as spiritually. 

I would beg leave to state tha^ the moral and intel- 
lectual welfare, that the material welfare of this mighty 
Nation is in the hands of the school teachers— is depend- 
ent upon the education of its citizens. 

The safety of our republican and democratic form of 
government will be found in universal education. It is 
not enough to teach reading, writing, and arithmetic, but 
philosophy, literature, aesthe'ics and higher culture m 
all the branches of human knowledge. The foundation of 
our educational establishment was laid on a rock near 
the Atlantic— additions to the original have been built 
until now it reaches the far-oft' Pacific. May the 
structure rise and rise until it reaches heaven. 



Jesse Applegate 

AN EVENING ON THE PLAINS. 

But time passes; the watch is set for the nio;ht, the 
council of the old men has broken up, and each has re- 
turned to his own quarter. The flute has whispered i*s 
last lament to the deepeninij: night. The violin is silent, 
and the dancers have dispersed. Enamored youth have 
whispered a tender "good night" in the ear of blushing 
maidens, or stolen a kiss from the lips of some fuiure 
bride— for Cupid here as elsewhere has been busy bring- 
ing together congenial hearts, and among these simple 
people he alone is consulted in forming the marriage tie. 
Even the doctor and the pilot have finished their con- 
fidential interview and have separated for ^he night. All 
is hushed and repose from the fatigues of the day, save 
the vigilant guard, and the wakeful leader who still has 
cares upon his mind that forbid sleep. 

He hears the ten o'clock relief taking post and the 
"all well" report of the returning guard; the night 
deepens, yet he seeks not the needed repose. At length 
a sentinel hurries to him with the welcome report that 
a party is approaching— as yet too far away for its char- 
acter to be determined, and he instantly hurries out in 
the direction seen. This he does both "from inclination 
and duty, for in times past the camp had been unneces- 
sarily alarmed by timid or inexperienced sentinels, caus- 
ing much confusion and fright amongst women and 
children, and it had been made a rule, that all extra- 
ordinary incidents of the night should be reported 
directly to the pilot, who alone had the authority to call 
out the military strength of the column, or so much of it 
as was in his judgment necessary to prevent a stampede 
or repel an enemy. 

Tonight he is at no loss to determine that the ap- 
proaching party are our nii^ssing hunters, and that they 



Binger Herman)} 159 

have met with success, and ht^ only waits until by some 
further signal he can know that no ill has happened to 
them. This is not long wanting. He does not even await 
their arrival, but the last care of the day being removed, 
and th^ last duty performed, he too seeks the rest that 
will enable him to go through the same routine tomorrow. 
But here I leave him, for my task is also done, and, 
unlike his, it is to be repeated no more. 



Binger Hermanrv 

The following extract Mas taken from Binger Her- 
mann's address upon "The Life and Character of the 
iron. Charles Crisp, Late Speaker of the House of Rep- 
resentatives": 

"Like the spire on some lofty cathedral seen at close 
view, when neither its true height nor its majestic pro- 
portions can be accurately measured, so is ex-Speaker 
Crisp, in according to him his just nlace in history in so 
brief a period after his death. His splendid life work 
will shine forth in even greater luster as time goes on, 
for then the mists which more or less obscure every active, 
ambitious genius, surrounded by enmities and personal 
antagonisms, will have faded away, and expose to vieAv 
the intrinsic worth and the perfect symmetry, the 
strength and beauty of this well-balanced life." 

Again he says : 

"The light of our friend was extinguished while it 
was yet day— yea, at high noon. He was still in the 
midst of his usefulness, and no premonition pointed out 
the untimely end. The summons came, and the work was 
done. It is difficult to realize tha* this is true. Do we 
comprehend the uncertainty of life? Is it so frail? We 
hear the answer in the expiring breath and see it in the 
open grave. It leaves an admonition to us all: 'Do 
thy work today ; for thee there may be no tomorrow. ' 
May we not hope that if not here there may be that to- 
morrow in the celestial realms, 'in that temple not made 
with hands, eternal in +he heavens?' " 



J. Quinn Thornton 

Born March 24, 1810, near Point Pleasant, Mason 
County, Virginia. With his parents he moved to Cham- 
paign County, Ohio, in infancy. Educated at the Uni- 
versity of Virginia, studied law, and admitted to prac- 
tice. Removed to Palmyra, Marion County, Missouri, in 
1835, where he taught school, practiced law, and for a 
short time edited a political paper. March 8, 1833, 
married Nancy M. Bogue at Hannibal, Missouri, rnd 
removed to Quincy, Illinois, where he practiced law. 
Came to Oregon in 1846. Judge of the Supreme Court 
under the Provisional Government of Oregon. Was ap- 
pointed by Governor Abernethy a commissioner to go to 
Washington to urge upon Congress the necessity of 
providing a territorial government for the Pacific North- 
west, and drew up the bill extending the jurisdiction of 
the United States over the Oregon country. Wrote a 
book entitled "Oregon and California." Died in Salem 
Sunday night, February 5, 1888, and buried in, Lee 
Mission Cemetery, where his body lies in an unmarked 
grave. 

A GRAVE IN THE WILDERNESS. 

A humble grave was dug under the spreading boughs 
of a venerable oak, and there the remains were followed 
by a silent, thoughtful and solemn company of emigrants, 
thus so forcibly reminded that they too were travelers to 
that land "from whose bourne there is no return." The 
minister improved the occasion to deliver to us an im- 
pressive sermon as we sat around that new-made grave 
in the wilderness, so well calculated to impress upon the 
mind the incalculable imporlance of seeking another and 
better country, where there is no sickness and no death. 

I had often witnessed the approach of Death ; some- 
times marking his progress by the insidious work of con- 
sumption; and, at others, assailing his victim in a less 
doubtful manner. I had seen the guileless infant, with 



Prince L. Caniphrll 161 

the lijxht of love and innocence upon its face, gradually 
fade away, like a beautiful cloud upon Ihe sky melting 
into the dews of heaven, until it disappeared in the blue 
ethereal. I had beheld the strong man, who had made 
this world all his trust, struggling violently with death, 
and had heard him exclaim in agony, "I will not die." 
And yet death relinquished not his tenacious grasp upon 
his victim. The sound of the hammer and the plane have 
ceased for a brief space ; the ploughman has paused in 
the furrow, and even the schoolboy with his books and 
sa- chel has stood still and the very atmosphere has 
seemed to assume a sort of melancholy tinge, as the tones 
of the tolling bell have come slowly, solemnly, and at 
measured intervals upon the moveless air, and hushing 
the mind to breathless thoughts that fain would know 
the whither of the departed. But death in the wildern^^ss 
— in the solitude of nature, and far from ihe fixed abodes 
of busy men— seemed to have in it solemnity that far 
surpassed all this. 



Prince L. Campbell 

AN OLD VIOLIN. 

quaintly-carved, grotesque old violin. 

Than thee Cremona's shops no rarer prize, 
Nor fairer masterpiece, e'er held within 

Their ancient walls. Thy melodies arise 

As soft as angels' harps heard through the skies. 
The subtlest sweetness thou hast slathered in 

From all thy sweetest notes, till now ther(^ lies 
To thee the store of years, which thou didst Avin 

By freely giving. So. I've thought, do men 
From noble deeds the choicest blessing reap : 

The sweetness given out returns again 
Unto the giver, and the soul doth keep 

A still increasing store as more is given. 
Till, like thy notes, each thought seems sent from heaven. 



Elwood Evans 

THE OREGON REPUBLIC. 

Penetrating the veil and looking behind, what do we 
realize? Our fellow countrymen and women, few in 
numbers, but steadfast in purpose, who had been for- 
gotten by their government, yet neglect could not weaken 
their loyalty and love. Submitting patiently to that 
injustice, always true to birthright and origin, they 
carried with them love of republican institutions, had 
established, and upon that very day were successfully 
administering, a government of the people, by "he peo])le. 
Oregon already contained within it an infant republic. 
Here was a thriving, loyal American commonwealth, 
started by children of the great republican household, 
who, though for a time discarded, had ever been ani- 
mated with unabated zeal for the glory and grandeur of 
their parent government. 

When I contemplate this history, this undying devo- 
tion to fatherland, this patriotic love of their native in- 
stitutions. I knoAv not which most to commend — their 
implicit confidence in the title of their country to Oregon 
which they never failed to assert on every proper oc- 
casion, and so sure were they that it would be main- 
tained, their patriotic avowal was that the government, 
they constituted their trusteeship of the territory, should 
only continue "until such time as the United States shall 
extend jurisdiction" — their signal and undying love for 
republican institutions, breathing through every line of 
the fundamental code of the government they founded; 
or their eminent conservative wisdom as displayed in that 
system, the laws enacted and their administration. How 
truly 

"Each man made his own stature, built himself; 
Virtue alone outbids the pyramids. 
Her monuments shall last when Egypt's fall." 



Henry S. DeMoss 

SWEET OREGON. 

{As sung hy (he DcMoss faiinlij, official song-writers of 
the World's Columbian Exposition, Oiicago, 1893.) 

I'm thinking now of a beautiful land, 

Oregon, Oregon ; 
With rivers and valleys and mountains grand, 

Oregon, sweet Oregon ; 
From the mountain peak all covered with snow, 
A swift crystal streamlet ever doth flow 
By the home of my youth, which I shall adore. 

Oh ! Oregon, my home. 

Chorus — 

Oh Oregon, sweet Oregon, 

My native home, I long for thee; 

My native home, I long for thee. 

T think of the forests and the prairies wide, 

Oregon, Oregon ; 
The mines, the fish, and the ocean tide; 

Oregon, sweet Oregon ; 
Where the mighty Columbia rolls down to the sea; 
And while the pines are echoing in the breeze, 
Like a beautiful dreain to my memory comes 

Sweet Oregon my home. 

I long to dwell in my mountain home, 

Oregon, Oregon ; 
Away from thy vales I shall never roam, 

Oregon, sweet Oregon ; 
I sigh for thy boun^^iful harvest again, 
Thy fruit and thy calm gentle rain ; 
And thy pure, balmy air, which wafts freedom's best 
song; 

Oh! Oregon, my home. 



Rabbi Bloch 

THE JEWISH MILESTONE. 

Let us then reason: If the unfolded book of nature 
has its inspirin<i' lesson foi- a poc^t's invocation, how much 
more should tlie mighty volumes wi-itten by the hand 
of Providence invite us to profound contemplation? 
Our Passover stands forth as the grandest milestone, 
as the epoch that marks the starting point in the evolu- 
tion of liberty. M'^ith the Passover, Egypt began the 
early spring of humanity, still wrapped in the deadly 
frost of slavery. Israel's departure from Egypt was 
the starting point on the journey to Sinai, over whose 
ideal peak that sun should rise, whose fire and light was 
strong enough to melt every iron shackle and stamp every 
man with the image of his Creator. 

Whether celebrated on the shores of the Nile, or on 
the hallowed banks of the Jordan, by a Joshua or Josiah, 
in the days of exile on the Euphrates, or in the golden 
era of the Maccabeans under conquering Rome, or its 
dissolution, whether crouched in dark ghettos or hunted 
by intolerant mobs— the Passover remained our conse- 
crated milestone, that inspires us to heroic endurance and 
perseverance in the cause of truth, and the hopes of a 
brighter dawn on the horizon of mankind. Passing over 
the streams and mighty rivers of time, and from mile- 
stone to milestone, set by grief or joy. it was +he ever- 
cheering voice of Israel's songs that drowned all sor- 
row and aroused anew our vigor, marching to tempo of 
time's tread, ever nearer and nearer to Israel 's goal. The 
old and withering walls of the middle ages began to 
crumble into dust under the heavy s'^roke of the advanc- 
ing age of reason. With every breach a new passageway 
was made to the advanced hosts of humanitarians. The 
Jew amongst them entered the cause dearest to him, and 



J?ahhi Bloch 165 

on every battlefield he proved that the heroism of the 
Maccabees was still abiding- in his race. 

The final glory, however, has not yet come. The battle 
is still going on. Here and there and everywhere social 
questions await its final solution. In the heat of the 
combat strange revelations of human nature are brought 
about. Amongst these, the old prejudice has concen- 
trated itself in the opposition to Jewish freedom, hon- 
estly won in the last 2000 years. But this, too, will suc- 
cumb, and the last blot against mankind will be wiped 
out. Meanwhile we must not desert Israel's old camping 
grounds. Our holy days must never degenerate into 
mere feasting days. These must more than ever become 
the high watch-towers from which to hail the sign of 
ages, and from which shall fioat forever the old banner of 
Judaism, cheering the old and the young, and summon- 
ing the true and brave to the old song of the Passover: 
"0 give thanks to the Eternal, for He is good, for unto 
eternity endureth His kindness." 




Harrison R. Kincaid 

WAR. 

{Extract from an editorial upon tltf threatened ivar with 

Chile.) 

Man, in all ages, has been the most destructive and 
turbulent animal on the globe. He has always delighted 
more in excitement and war than in peace and the pur- 
suits of learning, morality and harmonious development. 
The world is one great field of carnage where the armies 
of countless ages have marched to battle and where mil- 
lions and hundreds of millions have been slain and their 
bones strewn, layer upon layer, over every continent and 
at the bottom of every sea. One war has followed an- 
other, in regular succession, in all civilized and savage 
nations, as one wave follows another over the ocean. 
. . . The Linited States has been the most peaceable, 
intelligent and progressive nation of which history gives 
any account. But the spirit of war, the rattle of drums, 
the sound of bugles, the neighing of prancing steeds, the 
clashing of steel, the roar of artillery and all the symbols 
of war of ancient times thrill the hearts of the American 
people far beyond any other passion or sentiment. The 
spirit of war, which has desola'ed the earth in all ages, 
is not dead but only slumbering in our people. We 
have already had several wars during our brief national 
existence and may have many more. The people woi'ship 
warriors — great fighters — far more than they do the 
greatest intellectual and moral giants the world has ever 
produced. No man, however great he may have been 
intellectually and morally, has ever been elected Presi- 
dent of the United States over any kind of a military 
hero. And no party or man has ever opposed a war in 
this country, just or unjust, without having been swept 
out of power by popular indignation. 



J. Fred Yates 

DAMON AND PYTHIAS. 

{F)-otn an address delivered at Portland, Oregon. October 
13, 1898.) 

As we dwell for a time upon the beautiful story of 
Damon and Pythias we cannot but be benefited by its 
recital, and derive new lessons from it which will actuate 
our better motives toward each other, and toward our 
fellow men, and give us new inspirations which we can 
carry back with us into the practical affairs of life. 

As we never tire of looking at the beautiful blendings 
of color and tints of the rainbow, so we never grow 
weary watching the weaving threads that wove the lives 
of Damon and Pythias together; and as the rainbow 
is not more beautiful than each separate color so not more 
beautiful is the knitted web of these two characters than 
is each separate thread of the web entwined around their 
names. 

Damon and Pythias— at the mention of the names 
thought bounds backward and upward, and faith grows 
warmer with the thrill of joyful memory. Theirs were 
the examples of the highest types of simple fidelity, of 
the virtues of princely natures, though found in private 
spheres. 

Hpw great a man may be who never sits on a throne, 
nor emblazons a page of history, with his human glory 
by simply doing his individual duty to God and to man. 
To see others exalted without envy or jealousy, to devote 
himself to generous deeds of true friendship, to be loyal 
to others under all circumstances, to be faithful to God, 
and Chris i like to man, may perchance not gain for him 
a niche in the galleries of the world's great heroes and 
heroines, but it means true greatness and noble heroism. 
Because of this the name of Damon will go down to 
posterity as one of the greatest of profane or divine his- 



ins Orrf/o)! Lifrralurr 

tory, and w'\\\ remain immortal in the records of time, 
liis was a princely nature without heing a prince, and 
he had the qualities of kingliness without being a king. 
As we stand at the estuary of some river where its 
mighty flood passes into the ocean, it often seems to us 
that its current is actually reversed ; the tidal wave beats 
strongly from the sea, and the superficial waves beat 
upward from the stream. But down beneath the surface, 
with unceasing flow, the true current of the river moves 
steadily on. So it is with the i)rincip]es disjdayed in the 
lives of those who imitate the examples of Uamon and 
Pythias; the true current is ever flowing toward the 
right. In such lives we And the (lualities of candor, 
courage, confldence, loyalty, tenderness and unselfishness, 
which grow into true nobleness and true manhood, until 
character rises to the full zenith of greatness and power. 




Rev. H. K. Hines 

ASCENT OF MOUNT HOOD. 

The following is the closing of an account of the 
"Ascent of Mount Hood," made in July, 1866, by Rev. 
H. K. Hines, D. D., author of Hines 's History of Oregon. 
The paper was prepared for the Royal Geographical 
Society of London, by request of Sir Robert Brown^ of 
Ediuburg, Scotland, and was read before that society 
which passed unanimously a resolution of thanks to Dr. 
Hines, which was conveyed to him by letter with the 
personal compliments of Sir Roderick Marchison, who 
was then its president. It is given as a specimen of Dr. 
Hines 's descriptive writing: 

Standing upon the summit of the mountains when the 
ethereal brightness of the early northern summer was 
spread over the landscape near and far, it was given me 
to behold scenes that were their own and only parallel. 
I am in despair, go where I may on earth, of finding 
others like them. It was not the sublimity of the great 
mountains alone, nor yet the altitude which lifted me so 
high above the rolling, billowy breast of the great ranges 
sleeping their rocky slumbers so far beneath my feet, 
eastward, westward, southward and northward away to 
the far and blue horizon. It was not the reaching in and 
out of the great glittering rivertlow which cleft moun- 
tain from mountain like a silver sea, and seemed ever 
listening to the whispering forth and back of tempest 
and lightning from pinnacle to pinnacle far above its 
sleeping sweetness. It was all these, and much more, 
aggregating and blending their sublimities in a creation 
of indescribable grandeur before and below me. And 
then, above, the sky seemed so near ! jilmost within touch 
of my fingers. Where I had so often seen the clouds 
wander on their airy journeys so far above was now as 
far below. They were silver-flecked robes wrapping the 
icy foot of the mountain, and I stood far on their sun- 



170 Oregon Lilerature 

ward side and gazed down on their shining broidery of 
infinite brightness. And yonder, near a hundred miles 
northward, the storm-king broke his clouds and dashed 
his thunderbolts in harmless violence against the rocky 
sides and icy glaciers of Mount Adams, whose peaks 
glowed in unclouded light above the swift beat of the 
storm. The hour was auspicious, as if chosen of God, 
in which to greet the fool steps of mortal where few but 
the Immortal had ever trod before. It was a glorious 
welcome to this colossal masterpiece of His creation. 

Yonder, two hundred miles to the north, the huge, 
rugged, inverted icicles of Mount Baker pierce the snowy 
drifts fallen around their base, while in the intervals 
between are deep ravines, vast gorges, and rude, craggy 
peaks, as if the earthquakes had taken this whole western 
world in their frenzied arms and tossed its mightiest 
rocks in wild disorder across ihe plains. South, another 
hundred miles, over the deep chasms of rivers, and the 
dread blackness of vast lava-piles frozen into rocks by the 
winter of ages, Diamond Peak seems almost a rival to 
the mountain on which I stand. Eastward, in the fore- 
ground, sweep far away the golden plains of the Des 
Chutes, John Day and Umatilla Rivers, enframed within 
the piney crests of the great Blue IMountain Range, a 
hundred and fifty miles distant. On the west the ever- 
green summits of the Coast Range cut clear against the 
blue sky, with the Willamette Valley, unsurpassed in 
beauty on the earth, a hundred miles in length, sleeping 
in quiet loveliness at their feet. The broad, silver belt 
of the Columbia, without a peer in grandeur and purity 
on the continent, winds down through its bordering of 
sunlit vales and shaded hills toward the ocean, which I 
see blending with the blue of the horizon through the 
broad vista between the lofty capes that sentinel its en- 
trance to the sea, an hundred and fifty miles away. AVith- 
in these almost measureless limits, which I had but to 
turn upon my heel to sweep with my vision, was every ' 
variety of vale and mountain, lake and prairie, bold, 
beetling precipices and gracefully rounded summits, 
blending and melting into each other, and forming a 
whole (,)f unutterable magnificence. 



Mrs. Harriet K. Mc Arthur 171 

Now, as often as thought recurs to the moment when 1 
stood upon that awful heifrht, the same awe of the Innnite 
God "who setteth fast tlie mountains, being girded with 
power," comes over my soul. I praise Him that He gave 
me strength to stand where His power speaks with words 
few mortals ever heard, and the reverent worshippings of 
mountains and soltudes seem ever flowing up to His 
Throne. 



Mrs. Harriet K. M'Arthur 

SENATOR NESMITH AND HIS TUTOR. 

Senator Nesmith always was passionately fond of 
books, and, notwithstanding misfortune and hardship, at 
that time exhibited much of the same high spirit and love 
of fun and humor that he always retained. The tutor 
he remembered most vividly was one Gregor MacGregor, 
to whom he went to school one hundred and twenty days 
and received one hundred thrashings. He admitted it 
was the only school where he ever learned anything, and, 
notwithstanding a genuine feeling of regard for his old 
tutor, had vowed he would thrash him if he was ever 
large enough. The time came, but he did not execute his 
threat. In the year 1860, when Mr. Nesmith went to the 
United States Senate, he journeyed into New England to 
revisit the scenes of his early days. He went to see 
his old tutor, and said, "Mr. INIacGregor, I have always 
intended thrashing you in return for your early cruelty 
to me, and now I think I can do it." "Weel, Weel, 
Jeems," said the auld Scot, "if I had given you a few 
more licks you would have been in the Senate long before 
now. ' ' 



Valentine Bro^vn 

Valentine Brown, of Portland, Oregon, has recently 
written and published two vohinies, "Poems" and 
"Armageddon,'' of which the latter is probably the 
stronger book. The almost monosyllabic style of his 
beautiful strain is illustrated in tho following verses: 



HELEN. 

From a wide, wide sea, came a joy to me, 

Came a tiniest, daintiest star. 
And my ((uiet I'ooms its light illumes 

With the fairest tints which are. 

It is not a. gleam from the land of dream. 
Nor a star from the azure sky. 

But a life and light, which day and night 
Must either smile or cry. 

'Tis a babe as sweet as one would meet 
Where the babes of heaven be, 

And this I know, but a month ago 
From heaven she came to me. 

Her joyous coo is a song anew, 
And her wee cry moves my heart. 

And the angels where all things are fair, 
Must have sighed from her to part. 

But she surely brought to mj^ mortal lot 

Heaven's own sweet delight. 
For I bend and kiss my little miss. 

And she smiles with all her might. 



George H. Himes 

TWO HISTORIC PRINTING PRESSES. 

George H. Himes, secretary of the Oregon Historical 
Society, has written: 

The first printing press used by Americans on the 
Pacific Coast was sent from Boston, Massachusetts, to 
Honolulu, Hawaii, in 1819, by the American Board of 
Commissioners for Foreign INIissions (the Foreign Mis- 
sionary Society of the Congregational Churches of the 
United States), with type, fixtures, paper, etc., all to- 
gether costing $450.00. It was used by the early mis- 
sionaries at Honolulu for printing translations of differ- 
ent portions of tlie Scriptures, hymns, etc. A brass 
tablet upon the press bears the following inscription: 
"A Ramage Patent Printing, Copying and Seal Press, 
No. 4." Description: Height, twelve inches; length of 
impression lever, two feet; platen, twelve by fourteen 
and three-fourths inches: bed, twelve and one-half by 
sixteen and three-eighths inches ; length of track, thirty- 
one inches : size of largest sheet that can be printed upon 
it, ten by fourteen inches. The press stands on a strong 
wooden frame thirty inches high, twenty -six inches wide 
and thirtv-seven and one-fourth inches loner, in the form 
of a Roman cross. The impression is applied by means 
of a screw instead of a compound lever. Speed probably 
about one hundred and fifty impression per hour. The 
American Board Mission in Honolulu sent the plant as 
above noted to the Amprican Board ^lission in Oregon, 
of which Dr. Marcus Whitman was the head, and it 
arrived at Vancouver, on the Columbia River, about 
April 10, 1839. It was transported by canoes and pack 
animals to Lapwai, now in Idaho, as quickly as possibly 
placed in position, and the first proof sheet struck off 
on May 18, 1839. A dozen or more editions of portions 
of the New Testament, primers, hymnbooks, etc., were 



174 Onijon LHvraiure 

printed, and in 18-17 it was removed to The Dalles. 
Early the following year it was removed to the farm of 
Rev. J. S. Griffin, near the present City of Hillsboro, 
Washington County, Oregon, and used by Mr. Griffin in 
printing a monthly magazine called The Oregon Ameri- 
can and Evangelical Unionist, which was suspended after 
eight issues. Years later Mr. Griffin presented the press 
to the Oregon Pioneer Association, and through this 
organization it came into the possession of the Oregon 
Historical Society, and may be seen in the rooms of that 
society in the Cit*v Hall, Portland, together with a num- 
ber of the publications printed upon it. 

The first newspaper on the Pacific Coast, The Oregon 
Spectator, was issued February 5, 1846. The press and 
type were brought to Oregon from New York late in the 
previous year by the Oregon Printing Association. The 
press used was a Washington Hand Press, bed. twenty- 
five by thirty-eight inches, and this is still in active ser- 
vice in the office of the Oregon State Journal. Eugene, H. 
R. Kincaid, proprietor. The Printing Association, above 
alluded to. was composed of the following persons : 
William G. T 'Vault, president: James W. Nesmith, vice 
president (afterwards United States Senator) ; John P. 
Brooks, secretary ; George Abernethy. treasurer (he then 
was the Provisional Governor of the Territory of Ore- 
gon) ; Dr. Robert Newell, John E. Long, John H. Couch, 
directors. The constitution of the Printing Association 
was as follows: 

"In order to promote science, temperance, morality 
and general intelligence : to establish a printing press : 
to publish a monthly, semi-monthly or weekly paper in 
Oregon — the undersigned do herebv associate ourselves 
together in a body to be Eroverned by such rules and 
regulations as shall, from time to time, be adopted by a 
majority of the stockholders of this compact in a reg- 
ularly called and properly notified meeting. 

There were eleven "Articles of Compact." No. 8 
says: "The press owned by or in connection With this 
Association, shall never be used by any party for the 
purpose of propagating sectarian principles or doctrines, 
nor for the discussion of exclusive party politics," 



Joint Mi II 1 175 

William G. T 'Vault was the first editor, with a salary 
of $300.00 per year. He resit^ned at the end of two 
months. His successors were Henry A. G. Lee, George 
L. Curry, Aaron E. Wait, Rev. Wilson Blain, D. J. 
Schnebly, and C. L. Goodrich, in whose hands the paper 
expired in March, 1855. 



John Minto 

A GRANGER'S LOVE SONG. 

Come to the grange with me, love ; 

Come to the farm with me, 
Where the birds are singing and the flowers are springing. 

And life is happy and free. 

While the wheat grows in the field, love. 

And the fuel is cut from the grove. 
Neither want nor cold shall the night dreams haunt; 

Only plenty and comfort and love. 

Chorus — 

Come to the grange with me, love, etc. 

We'll build our home by the hill, love. 
Whence the spring to the brooklet flows : 

On the gentle slope where the lambkins play 
In the scent of the sweet wild rose. 

Chorus — 

In the labors, .ioys, and cares of the erange, love. 

In shelter and shade of the grove. 
Life's duties we'll meet in companionship sweet. 

And there rest from our labors in love. 

Chorus— 



Narcissa White Kinney 

DESCENT OF THE AVALANCHE. 

We are told so often that it is wasted effort to try to 
reform the workl or any portion of it. Especially is this 
said in reference to the temperance reicrm. The drink 
habit is such an ancient habit! The liqnor traffic is so 
fortified by appetite and wealth and politics, which they 
tell us nothing can destroy. 

Do you see those rocks upon that mountain side? 
Rocks hoary with age ! Seemingly strong as steel and 
firm as adamant. Before man was, they wei-e ! Can 
they ever be removed? But see again! God's agencies 
are at work. Just a flake of snow, a drop of rain, and 
God's hoary frost. Then another drop and another 
flake — and another and another; months pass, years 
pass. The rock reniains, but the glacier grows. And 
now see again! A new agency has been at work — God's 
golden sunbeam, until at length that mass of icy snow 
stands so nicely poised that it only requires the flutter 
of an eagles wing to send it down a thundering avalanche 
— and every jutting crag and every opposing rock is 
oidy a crushed and mangled mass at the bottom of the 
precipice ! 

Can the liquor traffic ever be destroyed? For years 
past God's agencies have been at work. A demonstra- 
tion in a laboratory, a lesson in a public school, a lecture 
on a public platform, a written page, a printed colunui ! 
Saloons go on. Patrons throng their doors. None 
notice the ever increasing multitude who are total ab- 
stainers.. Few note the fact that yearly the drinking 
man is outlawed by all business firms. Few hear the 
tread of the youthful feet — keeping time to th(^ music of 
"Alcohol a Poison, a Poison"; "Saloons j\Tust Go — 
Saloons Must go." But the avalanche is growing and 



/;;. ffnfrr 111 

at len<itli it will only rociniro the flutter of an angel's 
wing to set in motion this mighty thing called public 
sentiment and send it hurling down the mountain side, 
and every brewery and distillery— every saloon and bar- 
room will be crushed beneath its weight. 



E. Hofer 

MID-SUMMER BIRD SONG. 
A NATURE POEM. 

Our mating done, 

Love's course is run, 
On bouyant wing our spirits rise; 

All passion past, 

We'ri^ free at last — 
We march and counter march the skies. 

Our young are reared. 

The fields are cleared. 
The sun a golden glamour throws ; 

Our broods are grown, 

And fl(^dglings flown — 
The air with autunni perfume glows. 

We lilt and sing 

And flit and fling 
Through every copse and heather ; 

We coast and glide 

By country side— 
Week in, week out, of golden weather. 

' We bask through days 

• Of azure haze. 

And carol into dewless nights ; 
We sink to rest 
On earth's warm breast 
And wake tjie morn wi^h new delights, 



178 Oregon LUvnilurc 



We flash and fly 

We skim the sky 
And hurtle down the vaulted dome; 

All winds are fair, 

All days are rare, 
Where'er our marshalled armies roam. 

The wild grain grown, 

The thistle blown. 
And all the world in dainties dressed, 

Our life is free, 

No care know we — 
Both earth and air yield us their best. 



J. R. N. Bell 



IMMORTALITY. 

As the nineteenth century is closing, human inquiry 
in reference to human destiny is deepening. The darker 
problems that challenged human credulity, and drove 
many an inquirer into the realms of doubt in the past, 
are now shining out as clear as noonday— the mists and 
fogs dispelled— the illuminating rays of scholasticism, 
investigation and religion are making clear the problems 
hitherto obscure. We welcome the light. Shine forth 
glorious day ! Students of all schools of learning 
'drink deep of pure thought^quaff the gurgling streams 
of knowledge as they flow so freely by your doors. Here 
is an Arch. Understanding, knowledge and wisdom, 
these three, but the greatest of these is wisdom. These 
form one column of the Arch. Faith, hope, love, these 
three, but the greatest of these is love. These form the 
other column of the Arch. How grandly they rise ; they 
begin on earth, they rise to heaven. Wisdom is the 
highest of the first column, and love is the highest of the 
second column ; they are of equal height, and curve to- 
wards each other, but they are not united — something is 
wanting— what is it? It is the keystone— that keystone 



J. R. N. Bell 179 

will complete the Arch— it will unite soul and spirit- 
God and man— a complete unity. The name upon that 
keystone is a secret name, and no man can read it except 
him that receiveth it. Above the Arch is a streamer, and 
upon it, in soft and beautiful characters, rising into the 
resplendency of TiJod's fadeless light, is the inscription 
' ' Immortality. ' ' Then bring forth the keystone, let it rest 
upon the two columns as they curve towards each other, 
let wisdom and love be united, and man is redeemed, 
man is complete. Let us celebrate the completion of the 
work with songs and with minstrelsy — with our grandest 
choruses and best oratorios. Let us bring our choicest, 
sweetest flowers— bring the rose and the lily, the tulip 
and the pink, the sweet jassamine and voluptuous 
hyacinth, and the amaranth and orange blossoms and all 
the flowers from the wild wood— now weave them all into 
a garland— a crown— let this coronation of music har- 
moniw with man's perfect bliss— the crown of flowers 
his adornment— the keystone in the Royal Arch— his im- 
mortality a face— and man is now redeemed, full-orbed, 
restored to his original unity, rehabilitated with all the 
possibilities of a divine fraternity, and with all the bles- 
sing of a perpetual theophany. 



James Wiles Nesmith 

Senator James Wiles Nesmith was born in New 
Brunswick, July 23, 1820. He received his education in 
country schools, and deterininin<2: to try his fortune in 
the West, he arrived in Oregon City, in October, 1843, 
where his abilities were at once recognized. In 1849 he 
moved to Polk County, which was his home the remainder 
of his life. Mr. Nesmith served as Cajitain in the Cayuse 
and Rogue River Wars, and as Colonel in the Yakima 
War. He helped to organize the provisional government; 
was elected Judge in 1845 ; was United States Marshal 
in 1853-5; Superintendent of Indian Affairs for Oregon 
and Washington ; in 1860 he was elected United States 
Senator, and in 1873 he was elected Representative to 
Congress to fill the vacancy caused by the death of Joseph 
G. Wilson. He died June 17, 1885. The following 
eulogy is an extract from an address delivered in the 
House of Representatives, Monday, April 27, 1874. 

NESMITH S EULOGY ON CHARLES SUMNER. 

But sir, had Charles Sumner possessed the stateman's 
creative power, he was too pure a man for the politics 
of our day and generation. In his high position it was 
not possible for him to be the paid advocate, it was not 
possible for him to be the associate of men who, while 
waving the banner of freedom with one hand, stole from 
the public treasury with the other. Why, sir, he was 
so pure and single-hearted that he could not even under- 
stand such characters. 

Differing, as I honestly and heartily did. with Mr. 
Sumner upon the great issues out of which his fame 
grew, I feel it incumbent upon myself to say that while 
my own opinions upon those questions remain at variance 
with his, I concede to him -an honesty of purpose in 
urging his peculiar theories, with a pertinacity unparal- 
leled in our political history. Defeat strongly inspired 



JdnKs Wiles Nesiiiiik ISl 

him with renewed energy; and when the popular vote 
of the Nation, as it did at times, condemned him and his 
cause, he, phoenix-like, arose from the ashes of defeat, 
to advocate with fresh ardor and invigorated courage the 
"equality of the races before the law." 

His courage was of a higher order than that inspired 
by mere brute force. He adhered to his theories through 
contumely, adversity and disgrace ; and when the results 
of his labors, his sutf erings and his courage elevated those 
who had defamed and despitefully used him, from obsur- 
ity to power, he bore their renewed reproaches with but 
slight retaliation or complaint. 

In my humble estimation, Mr. Sumner never appeared 
greater than when he magnanimously proposed in the 
Senate that the achievements of our gallant troops in an 
intestine war should be obliterated from their flags. An 
envious and malignant man would have desired to see 
our Southern brethren humiliated by the emblazonment 
of their disasters upon that proud banner, which we all, 
as American citizens, desire to hail as the emblem of a 
great and united nationality. 

The evil passions growing out of the war had become 
so furious and unreasoning as to cause his own state to 
condemn his generous impulses upon that subject, but I 
thank God that his last moments on earth were cheered 
with the rescinding resolutions of the representatives of 
a people, themselves the descendants of those who felt, 
upon sober, second thought, what was due to a people 
who had gallantly risked their lives in their adherence 
to what they conceived to be the principle that "all just 
government is derived from the consent of the governed." 
His familiarity with English history had demonstrated 
to him the folly of perpetuating hatred and sanguinary 
reminiscences in a people who, in the nature of things, 
sliould be homogeneous. In the latter part of his life 
he gave evidence of his abhorrence of the white political 
slavery, no less than that which pertained to the African. 

Mr. Speaker, inexorable Death has claimed Charles 
Sumner as his own, and the grave has closed over his 
mortal remains. We shall never in our generation look 
upon his like again, simply because there are no sur- 



182 Oregon lAUraturc 

roundings to develop such a character. The freedom 
of the African is assured, and it now remains the highest 
duty of the statesman to assure the freedom of the citizen. 

"Peace hath her victories no less renowned than war" ; 
and the man who by persistent direction of peaceful 
agencies converts a nation of politicians to his views, is 
as much entitled to the triumphal arch as is the mere 
soldier who, by the unreasoning power of brute force, 
completes a victory with the sword and points to the 
hecatomb of the slain as his passport to power. The 
saddest thing about Charles Sumner's life to me is that 
he survived himself— that he lived to see other men oc- 
cupying the proud position, and wielding the power he 
had created, with no higher motive promoting them than 
the self-aggrandizement to be found in wealth. 

He is gone from among us. His chair in the Senate to 
which all eyes were turned when any great question 
agitated the grave body will never be filled by a public 
servant more pure in his motives, more elevated and 
courageous in his action, or truer to his convictions. Let 
us keep his virtues in remembrance. May his monument 
be of spotless marble, for it cannot be purer or whiter 
than his life. 



W. Lair Hill 

THE HOME BUILDING. 

A voyage of adventure brought not back the golden 
fleece, and the argonauts no longer poured over the 
Sierras into California, nor overflowed her northern mils 
to seek fugitive fortune in Oregon. The home builders, 
too— blessings on them everywhere and forever !— whose 
caravans, freighted with the precious burden of wife and 
children and household goods, the lares and penates of a 
gentler than a Trojan race, had whitened 1he desert with 
a constantly increasing stream direct to Oregon. 



Homer Davenport 

When a great genius is just rising to view, the aston- 
ished world says, "Who would have expected it?'' So 
it was said of Homer Davenport who rose out of Silver- 
ton to glitter among the artists of the world. Busy men . 
and women who had mingled with his modest ancestry 
for decades could scarcely realize that there had been 
generations of unassuming greatness— a veritable wealth 
of mind— that time and circumstances and God had 
wrought into an extraordinary man. They were glad- 
so glad they could hardly believe it— yet they were wont 
to think of him as a sort of intellectual accident eman- 
ating from nothingness and springing suddenly into the 
front ranks of modern artists. But genius comes not in 
this manner. "Who is this NastT' was the question 
whispered throughout the world. "Whence came he?" 
rung down the electric lines of the continents. "How 
came he by this God-given power?" was the question 
of the hour. And the answer was, "He hails from an 
Oregon hamlet and he is the evolution of a talented 
family and favorable environments." His mind is the 
offspring of an ancestry that has given the world great 
men and women in almost every department of human 
endeavor; and his intellectual faculties early reveled in 
the scenery of Oregon, and fed upon the nourishment 
of the ages. Then you cast your eye upward to behold 
the onward march of Genius, and you find him there— a 
great man who puts life and magic into every touch of 
his wonderful brush. This is Homer Davenport, the 
greatest cartoonist of America. 

But let the father, T. W. Davenport, tell the story. 

"Homer C. Davenport was born on his father's farm, 
located in the Waldo Hills, some five miles south of Sil- 
verton, Marion county, Ihe date of his birth being March 
8, 1867. His mother's maiden name was Miss Flora 
Geer, daughter of Ralph C. Geer. She was married to 



184 



()r( (joii Lihrdhii-c 




HI.JMER WATCHED HIS PA1*HHH HOEIN'O 
ANIJ RRPRODITCED THE SCEN'K ON 
THE HARN DOOR. 



rOR.\. 



the writer of this article November 17, 1854, and died 
November 20, 1870. 

"His extraordinary love for animals, and especially 
of birds, was exhibited when he was only a few months 

old. Unlike other 
babies, toys af- 
forded him but 
little amusement. 
Shaking' r a 1 1 1 e 
boxes and blowing 
whistles only fret- 
ted him, and his 
wearied looks and 
moans seemed to 
say that he was 
already tired of 
existence. 

"Carrying him 
around into the 
various rooms and 
showing pictures soon became irksome, and in quest 
of something to relieve the monotony of indoor life, his 
paternal grandmother found a continuous solace for his 
fretful moods in the chickens. But it was worth the time 
of a philosopher to observe the child drink in every 
motion of the fowls, and witness the thrill of joy that 
went through his being when the cock crew or flapped 
his wings. 

"Such a picture is worth reproducing. Old grand- 
mother in her easy chair on the veranda ; baby sitting 
upon the floor by her side; the little hands tossing wheat 
at intervals to the clucking hen and her brood, the latter 
venturing into baby's lap and picking grain therefrom, 
despite the wai'iiings of the shy old cock and anxious 
mother. This lesson with all its conceivable variations 
learned, ceased to be entertaining, and a broader field 
was needed. So grandma or her substitute carried baby 
to the barnyard, and there, sitting under the wagon shed, 
acquaintance was made with the other domestic animals, 
which afforded him daily diversion. At first their forms 
and quiet attitudes were of sufficient interest, but as these 



Homer Davenport 185 

became familiar more active exhibitions were required, 
and the dog, perceiving his opportunity, turned the 
barnyard into a circus of animals. 

"After his mother's death the family was subjected 
to several months of social isolation, during the rainy 
season, when Homer, just recovered from the dread 
disease of smallpox, was kept indoors. During these dull 
months he worked more assiduously at drawing than 
ever since for pay. Sitting at the desk, or lying prone 
upon the floor, it was draw, draw, draw. Fearing the 
effect of such intense application upon the slimsy fellow, 
his grandmother tried various diversions without much 
success. She could interest him with Indian or ghost 
stories, but such gave him no bodily exercise, and only 
set him to drawing 'how granny looked when telling 
ghost stories' 

[Among Homer's subjects for illustration was his 

father, whom he pictures in various ways on the 

fences, barn or wherever he could find a board large 

enough to accommodate the scene he wished to 

portray. For years this habit brousht about no ideas 

in his father's mind of future prominence for his son, 

but rather a feeling of irritation at being drawn as 

he was, and in ludicrous positions. As a result he 

put in considerable time in trying to develop, with 

the aid of a branch of hazel-bush, a more matter of 

fact manner of action in Homer. He had to finally 

give it up, however, for the latter kept on making 

his cartoons, often showing 'what father did when 

he got mad at them.' These incidents the justly 

proud parent has seemingly forgotten, but this 

article would not be complete without giving them 

mention, so the liberty was taken to supply the om- 

mission.— Editor Oregon Native Son.] 

"Plainly observable, even thus early, was his love of 

the dramatic in everything having life. Though much 

attracted by beautiful specimens of the animal kingdom, 

his chief satisfaction came from representing them in 

their moods. His pictures were all doing something. 

Horses, dogs, monkeys, chickens, ducks, pigeons, were 

exhibiting their peculiar characteristics, and so fitted to 



186 



Oirujon Ltlfrai'Ure 



the occasion as to awaken the supposition that the artist 
was 'en rapport' with all animated nature. A mad horse 
was mad all over, and an ardent dog showed it in every 
part, regardless of proportions. 

"Homer's early method of work, if an impulsive em- 
ployment may be dignified by the term method, was 
'sui generis,' and probably unique, if not wonderful. Co- 
incident with the drawing of a mad horse, was the acting 
by himself. The work would be arrested at times, seem- 
ingly for want of appreciation or mental image of a horse 
in that state of feeling, and then he took to the floor. 

After vigorously stamp- 
ing, kicking, snorting 
and switching an im- 
provised tail, which he 
held in his hand behind 
his back, until his feel- 
ings or fancy became 
satisfied, the picture 
was completed and re- 
ferred to nie with the 
question, 'Is that the 
way a mad horse looks '? ' 
'Yes, he appears to 
be mad through and 
through.' " 

When H o m e r ap- 
proached early man- 
hood, his father said of 
him: 
' ' We had a general merchandise store, and he had ex- 
perimented enough in selling goods to know that his mind 
could not be tied to the business. Customers buying 
tobacco got it at their own price, and shopping women 
objected to his habit of stretching elastic tape when 
selling it by the yard. There was fun in such things, 
but no perceptible profit. He opened the store in the 
morning while I was at breakfast, and took his after- 
wards. Upon going in one morning and finding the floor 
unswept I soon saw what had engaged his attention 
during the half hour. A magnificent carrier pigeon on 




1>AD FOUND THE PICTURE, THEX 
FOUND HOMER. 



Iloniff Dariiiiiorl 187 

the wing, and above it. in colored letters this legend: 
'How glorious the flight of a bird must be.' 

"Homer afterward attended the Commercial College 
in Portland, devoting much of his time to art ; then spent 
a short time in a California art school, which he soon 
left because he was compelled to draw by scribe and rule. 
He was soon employed by the Portland Mercury, then by 
the San Francisco Chronicle, the Examiner, and finally 
by the New York Journal, where the genius of the un- 
schooled Oregon boy proved him equal to the ambition 
of his employer. 

"He works from the small hours in the afternoon until 
near midnight, at the New York Journal office, in the 
Tribune building. New York City, and after breakfast in 
the morning he and his two children live in the barn- 
yard, which has a larger assortment of choice animals 
than'his father's had. His rests, relaxation and inspira- 
tion are with his earliest idols." 




A. W. Patterson 



Dr. A. W. Patterson, of Eugene, Oregon, published 
the Western Literary Magazine, much of the material 
coming from his own pen. It contained a serial of some 
length — "The Adventures of Captain Sanuiel Brady," 
the Indian fighter of the West, the material for which 
was obtained from Brady's daughter, then a poor old 
woman living in an alley in Pittsburg. He wrote a his- 
tory of the West, but this never reached cii'culation, 
being burned in the bindery. He also prepared a hand 
book named "Forty Principles of the English Lan- 
guage." His poem, "Onward." from which the follow- 
ing extract is taken, was published in book form in 1869. 
In 1878 Doctor Patterson entered into contract with A. 
L. Bancroft & Co., of San Francisco, California, to pre- 
pare the manuscript for a set of school readers and a 
speller to be known as the Pacific Coast Series. Ac- 
cordingly he wrote the first three readers and the speller ; 
but being unable to finish all by the required time, upon 
his suggestion, Sanuiel L. Simpson was employed to pre- 
pare the remaining foui'th and fifth readers. 



ONWARD. 

Midst tangled wildwoods, or in prairie nook, 
Beside the pleasant stream, or winding brook. 
Mirrored with wild fiower on the waveU^ts' breast, 
Oladdening some fertile region of the West, 
Where settler's cabin only late has been, 
The beauteous rising village may be seen ! 



A. ^V. raUrrsoii ^^^ 

The curling smoke asfontlin- throu-h the trees- 
The sounds of workmen coming on the breeze- 
The clustering buildings busily rearing there- 
The saw mill grating on the troubled air- 
The hum of voices -the occasional song- 
The shout, the laugh among the merry throng- 
With all the mingling tumult on the ear. 
Proclaim, indeed, that village life is here! 

Silence no longer o'er the valleys broods. 
Echo reverb 'rates through their solitudes; 
Around is heard the ax-man's measured stroke. 
And far prevails the awe of stil ness broke! 
The wild deer, startled, leaves the lowland biakt- 
Water-fiowl, screaming, quit the marshy lake- 
The bison bounds away with matchless might- 
The wolf, dismayed, is skulking from lhe sight- 
The Indian too— no less a wild-like race- 
Resigns, though more reluctantly the place. 
Saddened in heart, with mute and steadfast gaze, 
He lingers mournfully o'er the wildermg maze. 
See' how with wonder in his troubled eye, 
He marks that spire uprising, strangely high; 
Survevs the restless, creaking mdlwheel turn. 
And strangers' curious skill with deep concern; 
Around are closing in the white man s fields. 
He e'en in turn, at length dominion yields. 
And goes, disturbed, the early hunter too; 
Following his game, he thrids the wilds anew! 
Beside yon springlet where the alder grows, 
His shapeless cabin unfrequented rose. 
The idling savage but his casual guest. 
He lived as loved the daring hunter best. 
But now more distant depths ot solitude 
Are sought, where hum of life may not intrude; 
His dogs and gun, companions of his way. 
The restless Leather-Stocking of his day ! 



190 Oregon Litcratnre 

Crowds are gathering' over hills and nlains. 
Some from New Entjland's joyous, purling rills- 
Some from the Allegheny's wide-spread hills- 
Some from more western vales, or Southern slopes— 
Some where the high Canadian landscape opes; 
Others as well, from Europe's peopled shores. 
Where Rhine or Rhone his ancient current pours ; 
Where Norway frowns, Italy's summer smiles; 
The Celt and Saxon plow the British Isles: 
But vain to tell whence severally they hail. 
The wide world sends them from every hill and dale! 



A wonder often wakens in the eye. 

So great the turmoil, so intent they ply: 

The coming stranger, with a slackening pace, 

Pauses to gaze in silence on the place : 

The gray-haired woodsman, visitinsr the town, 

Lingers in mazement till the sun is down ! 

Buildings around on every hand are seen 

Ascending, as by magic, o'er the green. 

The cabin rises by the spreading shade. 

As well, the dome that looks o'er grove and glade 

With many a structure architect ne'er planned, 

The homely fashion of a border land. 

Till looms the village in the evening sun 

Greater, as each succeding days is done ! 



And while the busy builders fill the air 
With ceaseless echoes of their restless care. 
There is a stir of trade around the "store" — 
The mill-wheel rumbles by the sedgy shore — 
The blacksmith's anvil rings, his bellows blows- 
The teamster brawls and whistles as he goes— 
The salesman shouts a down the crowded street — 
The jockey clamors where the loitering meet — 
The speculator talks of corner lots— 
The marksman wagers on his sounding shots — 



A. W. Patterson 191 

Tho school room even mingles in its cares— 

The lawyer pettifogs— the gambler swears— 

The quack boasts skill— the preacher talks of sin— 

The cobbler beats an alto to the din! 

While many, another,, busied not in vain, 

Whate'er his part, as loudly strikes for gain. 



Thus hum the ever-active hours away. 
The noisy tumult of the eager day. 
Unceasingly, while echoing far and long. 
Is borne the cadences of mighty song. 




Thomas Franklin Campbell 

Thomas Franklin Campbell was born in Rankin 
County, Mississii)pi, May 22, 1822, and died at. .Mon- 
mouth, Oregon, January 17, 1893. He eame to Orejjon 
in 1869, and became the president of Christian College 
at Monmouth. He founded the Christian. Messenger, 
which he edited while he had charge of the school. He 
was the president and inspiration of the college until 
1882, when the institution was merged into the State 
Normal School. At the time of his death he was pastor 
of the Christian Church at Monmouth, Oregon. He pub- 
lished two volumes of popular lectures, "Know Thy- 
self" and "Genesis of Power." Few men have had a 
wider influence in the educational and religious affairs of 
Oregon than this scholar who took for his motto: "True 
politeness is a light coin, but above par all over ^he 
world. ' ' 

LANGUAGE. 

Language is the universal medium between spirit and 
spirit. Whatever its form, whether sign or sound, oral 
or written, it must be translated into words understood 
by him who hears them before it can be effective in arous- 
ing thought in the mind of another. 

A word is, therefore, the complete investment of a 
single element of spiritual power. It is not a mere sound 
of the voice, nor a combination of letters representing a 
sound, but a definite thought conceived or uttered in 
articulate sound. If merely conceived in the mind, it 
is formulated energy ready for utterance. 

It is like a ship freighted for a distant port, ready to 
weigh anchor; or a train ready to move, only waitinar the 
signal of the conductor. When uttered it speeds its 
flight with the velocity of sound, discharging its cargo 
of thought in the expectant mind. Thus, for illustration, 
a party has in his mind power to cause another, moving 
at a distance, to turn and move in the opposite direction. 
The poM-er cfin accomplish nothing while if remaiiis ia 



Thuimis Fraiil'liii ('(iinpltrll 193 

liis breast. It must be forninlated, l)r()iii!;ht out, sent 
forth, and lodged in the mind of the other. This is done 
by coining the appropriate sentence and uttering it with 
the voice, so that it reaches the ear and the understanding 
of the other. The intelligence is of sufficient interest to 
cause him to turn and move the other way. 

Another, intending to visit the city, is changed in pur- 
pose by power in his neighbor's mind, which was con- 
veyed to him in words, showing that it was his interest 
to remain at home. 

Language is in these, and all similar instances, the 
medium or vehicle by which the power is conveyed from 
its source to its object. It is an instrument of Divine 
appointment, sublime in simplicity, wonderful in result. 

Unlike the ship or the train, which having reached its 
appointed port or depot, and discharged its freight, in- 
cumbers the bay or obstructs the track, and needs to be 
removed; the sound corresponding to the ship or train, 
having reached its destination and deposited its burden 
of thought in the mind of the hearer, vanishes, utterly 
disappears, nor leaves a wreck behind. 

It is the most convenient and inexhaustible of all 
media. With the thought comes the sentences to him who 
has been trained in language. 

Unlike any other medium of conveyance, which reaches 
a single destination and discharges a single cargo, the 
same word uttered by a single impulse reaches one or a 
thousand or ten thousand minds at the same instant, 
discharging the same treasure of knov/ledge in each, the 
sound dying immediately and leaving the identical 
thought formulated in ever}^ mind. Its ability to multi- 
ply as a medium is limited only by the number of minds 
within hearing distance. 

This medium, though wonderful, is, nevertheless, 
entirely artificial, and as in any other art, its application 
must first be learned ; and then he who would use it must 
manufacture all the words he needs for every occasion. 

This is quickly and easily done. Having the organs 
of speech as instruments, and the atmosphere as material, 
he can construct as many vehicles of 1 bought as may be 
necessary to communicate with his fellows. 



194 Orcfjoii Lilcral itrc 

The felicity with which convei-sation is carried on be- 
tween fluent talkers, shows how readily any number of 
words may l)e coined without apparent effort. This is 
the result of skill, acquired by practice. The infant can 
neither make nor mould the voice into articulate sounds 
until taught. No one ever spoke until he heard some 
other speak. 

The deaf are always duinb. The first man had no 
mother to teach him, hence no mother ton.uue. lie must 
have been tau<iht of God, his Father. Langua<?e is, 
therefore, a Divine art. The noun is the basis of every 
tongue, (iod taught his son the art ( f naming. "What- 
soever Adam called every living creature, that was the 
name thereof." 

How long it took Adam to acquire a complete vocab- 
ulary the record does not show, nor is it stated how long 
they conversed together as Father and son, either before 
or after the advent of Eve. 

Between the latter advent and the fall, nuich time 
nuist have intervened ; for in the adjudication of their 
1 ransgression both Adam and Eve displayed skill and 
ingenuity in the use of language. 

Inspiration need not be claimed, nor miraculous power 
invoked in this origin of language. A Divine teacher 
with students mature in body and mind, was all-sumcient 
for the result. 

When God gave man language, religion became a 
]iecessity ; without it religion is impossible. The ele- 
ments of good and evil were in man's heterogeneous 
nature; but, "the knowledge of good and evil," was 
involved in the terms that expressed. 

Satan, who was also master of language, and knew 
its potency as an instrument, used it freely to prepare 
the way for sin and death. So ingenious was he in the 
use of words that he deceived the woman, and then 
caused her to become his instrument, adding Satanic 
eloquence to her charms of grace and beauty, to cause 
Adam, knowingly and willingly, to transgress, involving 
himself in ruin. Satanic spiritual power is still formu- 
lated in words uttered by those whom he deceives, and 



Thoiniis Fiv)il,llii ('(Dnphrll 195 

who l)("c()iiu' liis willing- todls to load others captive a^ 
his will. 

Since lan^ua.uc is only a niediuni, it may be used by 
Satan, as well as by man, to transpoi-t thoujiht from mind 
to mind, and to bring spiritual pressure to bear upon 
free agents, to cause them to act in harmony with the 
power impressed. 

Controlled by Satan, thi-ough the promptings of the 
tlesh, "the tongue," put by metonymy for the words it 
utters, is a litUe member, and boasteth great things. 
"Behold how great a matter a little fire kindleth ! And 
the tongue is a fire, a world of ini(iuity: so is the tongue 
among our members that defileth the whole body, and 
setteth on fire the course of nature, and it is set on fire 
of hell; . . . the tongiie can no man tame-, it is an 
unruly evil, full of deadly poison." The wisdom which 
guides such a tongue, is said to be, "earthy, sensual, 
devilish." 

The disciples of Sa'an have coined a very large vo- 
cabulary of words appropriate to only Satanic power, 
or human power with Satanic charact(Mnstics: and by 
the use of these more than any other differential trait, 
may the disciples of Satan be recognized. 

Pure speech out of a pure heart should ever distin- 
guish, "a chosen generation, a royal priesthood. :^. holy 
nation, a peculiar pe(!ple." 



Rev. G. H. Atkinson 

THE PIONEERS OF 1848. 

The year which we celebrate marks a fruitful period 
for the Pacific Northwest; 1848 was the turuiii<i; point 
in our history. Alternate hopes and fears had moved the 
people up to this date. There had he(^n no recoi>-niti()n by 
Congress. Laws had been enacted and executed by tho 
])ioneers. Society had begun to organize in a few centers, 
and public sentiment was respected ; but our Nation had 
not recognized this small band of American citizens on 
her extreme frontier along the Pacific Ocean until 1848. 
The earlier pioneers— the hunters and trappers, the mis- 
sionaries and their wives, and the innnigrant families of 
the settlers— had found the path and opened the way 
hither, and offered a safe and welcome home to all new 
comers. Great was their task and nobly they com- 
l)leted it. 

They had organized the Provisional Government iti 
1842-4, on the American plan of equal rights and e(|ual 
justice to every citizen, and had included nil as citizens 
who were so held under state and national laws. They 
had ventured the experiment of self-government as a 
duty of self-protection, and not in disrespect or defiance 
of Congress or the Constitution. Having marched two 
thousand miles westward over Ihe famed "American 
Desert," and over three mountain ranges, and still stand- 
ing on American soil, they wished no divorce from the 
home government, but, rather, a stronger union with it. 
The fires of patriotism burned more, not less, brightly 
within them under the force of their long and painful 
tramp to plant and defend the "Flag of Our Xjition" 
on this Pacific frontier. 




FREDERIC H. BALCH 



Frederic Homer Balch 

Frederic Homer Balch, the author of "Bridge of the 
Gods " was bom at Lebanon, Oregon, December 14 
1861 ' As a child, stories of war fascinated him, and 
as he grew older, the study of ancient history was his 
especial delight. Books were expensive then, and tew 
of the frontier families could afford libraries; but oc- 
casionally an Eastern family settled near his home, and 
amon<^ their possessions were often books, which were 
always willingly loaned to the boy who so appreciated 
their contents. He once wrote to his sister, ' Much ot 
the education I have is due to the ceaseless reading and 
re-reading of Macaulay " ; and of Milton he wrote, How 
I thrilled and exulted in the mighty battle of Satan toi- 
the throne of God; in his fierce defiance and unbending 
liate, after the battle was lost ; and in the dusky splendor 
of the palace, and the pomp, with which he and his 
followers surrounded themselves in hell." 

When about thirteen years old, he wrote poetry and 
historical sketches. He had an intense love for his 
native state, and from boyhood made a study of its early 
history, and of the Indians along the Columbia, ihis 
o-radually inspired him with a desire to preserve the 
fegends of a fast-disappearing people— weaving their 
traditions in with the first attempt at civilization m 
Oregon, and embellishing tlie whole with the magnificent 
scenery of the Northwest— writing romances that would 
be to Oregon what Scott's were to Scotland. 

This ambition, formed in his boyhood, grew with him 
so that subsequently he collected and carefully stored 
away a vast fund of knowledge regarding the Indians 
their habits, religious beliefs, traditions and mode ot 
living. He devoted himself to the one ambition, studying 
their habits, religious beliefs, traditions and mode of 
the farm. Schools and colleges are so plentiful today 
that the student of the present cannot realize the strug- 
gles of an ambitious boy to educate himself thirty years 
ago, in the. then thinly-settled West. 



198 Oi'ffjou LilrnifKre 

When about twenty-one, he entered the ministry, and 
for several years did missionary work, organizing 
churches, spending his days in the saddle and his even- 
ings in the pulpit, going into the remote settlements 
where sermons were practically unknown ; and ever kept 
his appointments absolutely regardless of health or 
weather. 

With all the added duties of this new work, he carried 
on the search for material for his book, continuing his 
study of Indian lore as zealously as before. Much of 
his vacation was spent in traveling over the Northwest 
gleaning information from every available source, and 
verifying doubtful statements. After a long and thor- 
ough search for information, nnich study and slow 
(}uestioning of Indians from many tribes— especially the 
aged ones — he was firmly convinced of the previous ex- 
istence of the "Bridge of the Gods" of Indian tradition. 

After a time he settled in the pastorate of the Con- 
gregational Church at Hood River, so gaining a little 
more time foi' writing; and there, during a vacation, he 
began "The Bridge of the Cods.'' After its eoiiii)letion 
lie entered a seminary in Oakland, California, to take a 
course in theology. In all the years past he had thought 
but little of himself, his work so fully absorbing his 
attention. When within a few weeks of completing the 
seminary course, illness attacked him and he had not 
the strength to rally. Bravely and patiently he battled 
against the disease, as all through life he had fought 
and overcome obstacles that threatened the overthrow 
of his cherished plans. "The Bridge of the Gods" had 
just been published, and it seemed now as if the work 
and plans of a lifetime were soon to be realized. Hard 
indeed it was to lay down his work, the writing and 
research that was as a part of his life, and the ministry 
he so loved, but he uttered no word of complaint. Wi<h 
his wonted gentleness and patience he simply said, "It 
is all right, the Master has work for me elsewhere that 
I could not do here." His decease occurred in Portland, 
Oregon, June 3, 1891. 

Through the years of his minis* ry he neglected neither 
liis literai-y nor his pastoral woj-k, and there are many 



Fndn-ic llowd- BiiUh li)0 

today who will tell you that the words and the ex- 
ample of the young minister still abide with them and 
that his beautiful influence yet shines in their lives. 

With .the indomitable energy bequeathed to him by 
pioneer life ]Mr. Balch had outlined several other books, 
and had partly written one— "Tenasket," a tale of 
Oregon in 1818; "Genevieve," a story of the Oregon 
of today; "Crossing the Plains," and "Olallie," and 
other stories, some of which are yet in manuscript only. 
All these were to be of Oregon, her past, her early 
settlers and Indian tribes, and would have been rich in 
the legends and customs of the race now but a handful 
in a region where once they reigned supreme. , 

THE BRIDGE OF THE GODS. 
CHIEF MULTNOMAH IN COUNCIL. 

The chiefs of the Willamettes had gathered on Wapato 
Island, from time immemorial the council ground of 
the tribes. The white man has changed its name to 
"Sauvie's" Island; biit its wonderful beauty is un- 
changeable. Lying at the mouth of the Willamette 
River and extending for many miles down the Columbia, 
rich in wide meadows and crystal lakes, its interior 
dotted with majestic oaks and its shores fringed with 
cottonwoods, around it the blue and sweeping rivers, the 
wooded hills, and the far white snow peaks — it is the 
most picturesque spot in Oregon. 

The chiefs were assembled in secret council, and only 
those of pure Willamette blood were present, for the 
question to be considered was not one to be known by 
even the most trusted ally. 

All the confederated tribes beyond the Cascade Range 
were in a ferment of rebellion. One of the petty tribes 
of Eastern Oregon had recently risen up against the 
AVillamette supremacy; and after a short but bloody 
struggle, the insurrection had been put down and the 
rebels almost exterminated by the victorious W^illamettes. 

But it was known that tlie chief of the malcontents 
had passed from tribe to tribe before the struggle com- 
menced, inciting them to revolt, and it was suspected 



200 Oregon Literature 

that a secret league had been formed ; though when 
matters came to a crisis, the confederates, afraid to face 
openly the fierce warriors of the Willamette, had stood 
sullenly back, giving assistance to neither side. It was 
evident, however, that a spirit of angry discontent was 
rife among them. Threatening language had been used 
by the restless chiefs beyond the mountains ; braves had 
talked around the camp fire of the freedom of the days 
before the yoke of the confederacy was known ; and the 
gray old dreamers, with whom the mimalnse till ic ions 
(dead people) talked, had said that the fall of the 
VVillamettes was near at hand. 

The sachems of tlie Willamettes, advised of every- 
thing, were met in council in the soft Oregon spring- 
tide. They were gathered under the cottonwood trees, 
not far from the bank of the Columbia. The air was 
fresh with the scent of the waters, and the young leaves 
were just putting forth on the "trees of council," whose 
branches swaj^ed gently in the breeze. Beneath them 
their bronze faces were more swarthy still as the dancing 
sunbeams fell upon them through the moving boughs, 
thirty sachems sat in close semi-circle before their great 
war-chief, Multnomah. 

It was a strange, a soml)re asseml)ly. The chiefs were 
for the most part tall, well-built men, warriors and 
hunters from their youth up. There was something 
fierce and haughty in their bearing, something menacing, 
violent and lawless in their saturnine faces and black, 
glittering eyes. Most of them wore their hair long; 
some plaited, others flowing loosely over their shoulders. 
Their ears were loaded with hiagua shells ; their dress 
was composed of buckskin leggings and moccasins, and 
a short robe f dressed skin that came from the 
shoulders to the knees, to which was added a kind of 
blanket woven of the wool of the mountain sheep, or an 
outer robe of skins or furs, stained various colors and 
always drawn close around the body when sitting or 
standing. Seated on rude mats of rushes, wrapped each 
in his outer blanket and doubly wrapped in Indian 
stoicism, the warriors were ranged before their chief. 

His garb did not ditt'er fi'om that of the others, except 



Frederic Homer Batch 201 

that his blanket was of the richest fur known to the 
Indians, so doubled that the fur showed on either side. 
His bare arms were clasped each with a rousrh band of 
gold: his hair was cut short, in sign of mourning for 
his favorite wife, and his neck was adorned with a collar 
of large bear-claws, showing he had accomplished that 
proudest of all achievements for the Indian— the killing 
of a grizzly. 

Until the last chief had entered the grove and taken 
his place in the semi-circle, ^Multnomah sat like a statue 
of stone. He leaned forward reclining on his bow, a 
fine unstrung weapon tipped with gold. He was about 
sixty years old, his form tall and stately, his brow high, 
his eyes black, overhung with shaggy gray eyebrows 
and piercing as an eagle's. His dark, grandly impassive 
face, with its imposing regularity of feature, showed a 
penetration that read everything, a reserve that re- 
vealed nothing, a dominating power that gave strength 
and command to every line. The lip. the brow, the very 
grip of the hand on the l)ow told of a despotic temi)er 
and an indomitable will. The glance that flashed out 
from this reserved and resolute face— sharp, searching 
and imperious— may complete the portrait of Multno- 
mah, the silent, the secret, the terrible. 

When the last late-entering chief had taken his place, 
:\Iultnomah rose and began to speak, using the royal 
language; for like the Cayuses and several other tribes 
of the Northwest, the Willamettes had two languages— 
the common, for every-day use, and the royal, spoken 
only by the chiefs in council. 

In grave, strong words he laid before them the troubles 
that threatened to brealv up the confederacy and his 
plan for meeting them. It was to send out runners 
calling a council of all the tribes, including the doubtful 
allies, and to try before them and execute the rebellious 
chief, who had been taken alive and was now reserved 
for the torture. Such a council, with the terrible warn- 
ing of the rebel's death enacted before it, would awe 
the malcontents into submission or drive them into open 
revolt. Ijong enough had the allies spoken with two 
tongues; long enough had they smoked the peace-pipe 



202 Orr<jo)i Lite ra lure 

with both the Willamettes and their enemies. They 
must come now to peace that should be peace, or to open 
war. The chief made no gestures, his voice did not vary 
its slern, de]il)erate accents from first to last; but there 
was an indefinable something in word and manner that 
told how his warlike soul thirsted for battle, how the 
iron resolution, the ferocity lieneath his stoicism, inirned 
with desire of vengeance. 

There was perfect attention while he spoke — not so 
much as a glance or a whisper aside. When he had 
ceased and resumed his seat, silence reigned for a little 
while. Then Tla-wau-wau, chief of the Klackamas, a 
sub-tribe of the Willamettes, rose. He laid aside his 
outer robe, leaving bare his arms and shoulders, which 
were deeply scarred; for Thi-wau-wau was a mighty 
M'arrior, and as such commanded. With measured de- 
liberation he spoke in the royal tongue. 

"Tla-wau-wau has seen many winters, and his hair 
is very gray. Many times has he watched the grass 
spring up and grow brown and wither, and the snows 
come and go, and those things have In-ought him wisdom, 
and what he has seen of life and death has given him 
strong thoughts. It is not well to leap headlong into 
a muddy stream, lest there be rocks under the black 
water. Shall we call the tribes to meet us here on the 
Island of Council '? When they are all gathered together 
they are more numerous than we. Is it wise to call 
those that are stronger than ourselves into our wigwam, 
when their hearts are bitter against us? AVho knows 
what plots they might lay, or how suddenly they might 
fall on us at night or in the day when we were unpre- 
pared? Can we trust them? Does not the Klickitat's 
name mean 'he that steals horses'? The Yakima would 
smoke the peace-pipe with the knife that was to stab 
you hid under his blanket. The Wasco's heart is a lie, 
and his tongue is a trap. 

"No, let us wait. The tribes talk great swelling words 
now and their hearts are hot, but if we wait, the fire 
will die down and the words grow small. Then we can 
have a council and l)o knit together again. Lei us wait 



Fndcn'r Homo- Halch 203 

til] another winter has come and o;one; then let us meet 
in council, and the tribes will listen. 

"Tla-wau-wau says, 'wait, and all will be well.' '' 

His earnest, emphatic words ended, the chief took his 
seat and resumed his former look of stolid indifference. 
A moment before he had been all animation, every glance 
and ges'ure eloquent with meaning; now he sat seem- 
ingly impassive and unconcerned. 

There was another pause. It was so still that the 
rustling of the boughs overhead was startlingly distinct. 
Saving the restless giit'er of black eyes, it was a tableau 
of stoicism. Then another spoke, advising caution, 
setting forth the danger of plunging into a contest with 
the allies. Speaker followed speaker in 1he same strain. 

As they uttered the words counselling delay, the 
glance of the war-chief grew ever brighter, and his grip 
upon the bow on which he leaned grew harder. But the 
cold face did not relax a nuiscle. At length rose Mishlah 
the Cougar, chief of the Mollalies. His was one of the 
most singular faces there. His tangled hair fell around 
a sinister, bestial countenance, all scarred and seamed 
by wounds received in battle. His head was almost flat, 
running back from his eyebrows so obliquely that when 
he stood erect he seemed to have no forehead at all ; 
while the back and lower part of his head showed an 
enormous development— a development that was all 
animal. He knew nothing but battle, and was one of 
the most dreaded warriors of the Willame'tes. 

He spoke, not in the royal language, as did the others, 
but in the common dialect, the only one of which he was 
master. 

"My heart is as the heart of Mul nomah. Mishlah is 
hungry for war. If the tribes that are our younger 
brothers are faithful, they will come to the council and 
smoke the pipe of peace with us; if they are no\ let us 
know it. Mishlah knows not what it is to wait. You all 
talk words, words, words; and the tribes laugh and say, 
'The AA^illamettes have become women and sit in 1he 
lodge sewing moccasins and are afraid to figlit.' Send 
out the runners. Call the council. Let us find who are 
our enemies; then let us strike!" 



204 Oregon Literature 

The hands of the chief closed involuntarily as if they 
clutched a weapon, and his voice rang harsh and grating. 
The eyes of Multnomah flashed fire, and the war-lust 
kindled for a moment on the dark faces of the listeners. 

Then rose the grotesque figure of an Indian, ancient, 
withered, with matted locks and haggard face, who had 
just joined the council, gliding in noiselessly from the 
neighboring wood. His cheek bones were unusually 
high, his lower lip thick and protruding, his eyes deeply 
sunken, his face drawn, austere, and dismal beyond de- 
scription. The mis-shapen, degraded features repelled 
at first sight; but a second glance revealed a great dim 
sadness in the eyes, a gloomy foreboding on brow and lip 
that were weirdly fascinating, so sombre were they, so 
full of woe. There was a wild dignity in his mien ; and 
he wore the robe of furs, though soiled and torn, that 
only tlie richest chiefs wqyq able to wear. Such was 
Tohomish, or Pine Voice, chief of the Santiam tribe of 
the Willamettes, the most eloquent orator and potent 
medicine or tomanowos man in the confederacy. 

There was a perceptible movement of expectation, a 
lighting up of faces as he arose, and a shadow of anxiety 
swept over Multnomah's impressive features. For this 
man's eloquence was wonderful, and his soft nuignetic 
tones could sway the passions of his hearers to his will 
with a power that seemed more than human to the super- 
stitious Indians. Would he declare for the council or 
against it; for peace or for war? 

He threw back the tangled locks that hung over his 
face, and spoke : 

"Chiefs and warriors, who dwell in lodges and talk 
with men, Tohomish, who dwells in eaves and talks 
with the dead, says greeting, and l)y him the dead send 
greeting also." 

His voice was wonderfully musical, thrilling and 
pathetic; and as he spoke the salutation from the dead, 
a shudder went through the wild audience before him— 
through all but Multnomah, who did not shrink nor drop 
his searching eyes from the speaker's face. What cared 
he for the salutation of the livinu' or tlii^ dead"? Would 



Frederic Ilomcr Balvli 205 

this man whose inflnence "was so powerful deehire for 
action or delay? 

"It has been long since Tohomisli has stood in the 
light of the sun and looked on the faces of his brothers 
or heard their voices. Other faces has he looked upon 
and other voices has he heard. He has learned the lan- 
guage of the birds and the trees, and has talked with 
the People of Old who dwell in the serpent and the 
coyote; and they have taught him their secrets. But 
of late terrible things have come to Tohomish." 

He paused, and the silence was breathless, fin- the 
Indians looked on this man as a seer to Avhom the fu'nrc 
was as luminous as the past. But Multnomah's bivw 
darkened; he felt that Tohomish also was against him, 
and the soul of the warrior rose up stern and resentful 
against the prophet. 

"A few suns ago. as I wandered in the forest by the 
Santiam, I heard the death-wail in the distance. I said, 
'Some one is dead, and that is +he cry of the mourners. 
I will go and lift up my voice with them. But as I 
sought them up the hill and through the thickets the 
cry grew fainter and farther, till at last it died out amid 
distant rocks and crags. And then I knew that I had 
heard no human voice lamenting the dead, but that it 
was the Spirit Indian-of-the-Wood wailing for the living 
whose feet go down to the darkness and whose faces the 
sun shall soon see no more. Then my heart grew heavy 
and bitter, for I knew that woe had come to the 
Willamettes. 

"I went to my den in the mountains, and sought to 
know of those that dwell in the night the meaning of 
this. I built the medicine tire. I fasted, I refused to 
sleep. Day and night I kept the fire burning; day and 
night I danced the tomaiwwos dance around the flames 
or leaped through them, singing the song that ])rings 
the Spee-ough, till at last the life went from my limbs 
and my head grew sick and everything was a whirl of 
fire. Then I knew that the power was on me, and I fell, 
and all grew black. 

"I dreamed a dream. 

"I stood by the death-trail that leads to ihe spiritland. 



206 Onijoii Jjlhrainyv 

The souls of those who had just died were passing; and 
as I gazed, the wail I heard in the forest eaiiie back, but 
nearer than before. And as the wail sounded, the thi-eng 
on the death-trail grew thicker and theii' tread swifter. 
The warrior passed with his bow in his hand and his 
quiver swinging from his shoulder; the s(iuaw followed 
with his food upon her back ; the old tottered by. It 
was a whole people on the way to the spirit-land. But 
when I tried to see their faces, to knew 'hem, if tliey 
were Willamette or Shoshone or our brother tribes, I 
could not. But the wail grew ever louder and the dead 
grew ever thicker as they passed. Then it all faded out, 
and I slept. When I awoke it was night ; the tire had 
burned into ashes and the medicine wolf was howling 
on the hills. The voices that are in the air canu^ to me 
and said, 'Go to the council and Icll what you ha\c seen' ; 
but I refused, and went far into the wood to avoid them. 
But the voices would not let me rest, and my sj^irit 
burned within me. and T came. Beware of th(^ great 
council. Send out no runners. Call not the tribes 
together. Voices and omens and dreams tell Tohomish 
of something terrible to come. The trees whisper it; 
it is in the air, in the waters. It has made my spirit 
bitter and heavy until my drink seems blood and my 
food has the taste of death. Warriors. Tohomish has 
shown his heart. His words are ended." 

He resumed his seat and drew his robe about him, 
muffling the lower part r)f his face. The matted hair 
fell once more over his di-ooping brow and repulsive 
countenance, from which the light faded the moment 
he ceased to speak. Again the silence was profound. 
The Indians sat spell-bound, charmed by the mournful 
music of the prophet's voice and awed by the dread 
vision he had revealed. All the superstition within 
them was aroused. When Tohomish took his seat, every 
Indian was ready to oppose the calling of the council 
with all his might. Even Mishlah, as superstitious as 
blood-thirsty, was stariled and perplexed. The war- 
chief stood alone. 

He kne\\'t it, but it only made his desi')otic will the 
stronger. Against the opposition of the council and the 



Frcdrrir llouur lUilvh 207 

waniiiig of 'I'ohoinish, ;i;-';iiiisl Ioiiki iiowas iuid Spfc-oilf/h, 
ominous as they were even to liini, i-ose up 1he instinct 
which was as much a part of him as life itself— the 
instinct to battle and to concjuer. He was resolved with 
all the jDfrand strenc^th of his nature to ])end the council 
to his will, and with more than Indian suhtility saw how 
it might be done. 

He rose to his feet and stood for a moment in siloice, 
sweepino- with his frlanee the circle of chiefs. As he 
did so, the mere personality of the man began to produce 
a reaction. For forty years he had been the great war- 
chief of the tribes of the AVauna, and had never known 
defeat. The ancient enemies of his race dreaded him ; 
the wandering bands of the prairies had carried his 
name far and Avide; and even bevond the Tiockies. Sioux 
and Pawnee had heard rumors of the powerful chief by 
the Big River of the West. He stood before them a 
huge, stern warrior, himself a living assurance of victory 
and dominion. 

As was customary with Indian orators in preparing 
the way for a special appeal, he began to recount the 
deeds of the fathers, the valoi- of the ancient heroes of 
the race. His stoicism fell from him as he half snoke, 
half chanted the haranirue. The nassion that was burn- 
ing within him made his words like pictures, so vivid 
they were, and thrilled his tones with electric power. 
As he went on, the sullen faces of his hearers grew 
animated; the superstitious fears that Tohomish had 
awakened fell from them. Again they were warriors, 
and their blood kindled and their pulses throbbed to the 
words of their invincible leader. He saw it, and began 
to speak of the battles they themselves had fought and 
the victories they had gained. More than one dark cheek 
flushed darker and more than one hand moved uncon- 
sciously to the knife. He alluded to the recent war and 
to the rebellious tribe that had been destroyed. 

"That/' he said, "was the people Tohomish saw pass- 
ing over the death-trail in his dream. AVhat wonder 
that the thought of death should fill the air, when we 
have slain a whole people at a single blow! Do we not 
know too that their spiri+s would try to frighten our 



208 Oregon Literature 

dreamers with omens and ])ad toriKUKnvofi? AVas it not 
tomanoivos that Tohoniish saw? It could not have come 
from the Great Spirit, for lie spoke to our fathers and 
said tliat we should be strongest of all the tribes as 
long as the Bridge of the Gods should stand. Have the 
stones of that bridge begun to crumble, that our hearts 
should grow weak?" 

He then described the natural bi-idge which, as tradi- 
tion and geology alike tell us, spanned at that time the 
Columbia at the Gascades. The Great Sjiirit. he declared, 
had spoken ; and as he had said, so it would be. Dreams 
and omens were mist and shadow, luit the bridge was 
rock, and the Avord of the Great Spirit stood forever. Gn 
this tradition Ihc chief dwelt with tremendous foi'ce, set- 
ting against the superstition that Tohomish had roiised 
the still more powerful supei-stition of the bridge — a su- 
l)erstition so interwoven with evei-y thought and hope of 
the Willamettes that it had become a part of their char- 
acter as a tribe. 

And now when their martial enthusiasm and fatalistic 
courage were all aglow, when the recital of their fathers' 
deeds had stii-red their blood and the y)ortrayal of their 
own victories filled them again with the fierce joy of 
conflict, when the mountain of stone that arched the 
Columbia had risen before them in assurance of dominion 
as eternal as itself— now, when in every eye gleamed 
desire of battle and every heart was aflame, the chief 
made (and it was characteristic of him) in one terse 
sentence his crowning appeal — 

"Chiefs, speak your heart. Sludl the runners be sent 
out to call the council?" 

There was a moment of intense silence. I'hen a low, 
deep murmur of consent came from the excited listen(M-s; 
a half-smothered war-cry burst from the lips of Alishlah, 
and the victory was won. 

One only sat silent and apart, his robe drawn close, 
his head bent down, seemingly oblivious of all around 
him, as if resigned to inevitable doom. 

"Tomorrow at dawn, while the light is yet young, 
the runners will go out. Let the chiefs meet here in 
the grove to hear the message given t)iem to be carried 
to the tribes. The talk is ended." 



George A. Waggoner 

Hon. George A. Waggoner, of Corvallis, has written 
a great many thrilling stories of early Oregon life in the 
strain that Bert Harte wrote of California in the mining 
days. Mr. Waggoner is a gifted conversationalist, and 
as a MTiter of stories he is ahvays interesting. The fol- 
lowing is a scene from Snake River life at a time when 
the country was yet new to the white man: 

BUCKSKIN'S FIGHT WITH THE WOLVES. 

Mark ran out on the ice and fired at the wolves that 
had surrounded their victim on the bank, but the distance 
was too great for him to hit them. The report of the 
gun, however, frightened 1hem so they did not attack, 
but sneaked around until it was dark, when the noise 
of snorting and snapping of teeth told Buck's friends 
that the battle was on again. It raged with more or less 
fury through the night. 

It was impossible for our bachelors to rest while the 
old horse was so bravely fighting for his life. A fire 
was built on the bank and guns were fired at short 
intervals until morning. AVhen it came, old Buck was 
still defiant yet his tireless enemies still beset him. 

"AVhat shall we do?" said Guy. "It is awful to stay 
here and not aid the poor old fellow when he neighs 
to us so piteously. He almost talks. I feel as if it 
were a man begging us to hel]i him. Can't we cut a 
channel through the ice for the ferryboat?" 

"That would be impossible. The ice has drifted and 
lodged about it many inches thick," answered his uncle. 

"Then let us make a raft." 

"I have been thinking about that," said Mart, "Imt 
we have nothing with which to make it. Our whole 
house, if taken down and made into a raft, would scarcely 
float us and we would frc^eze to death in this weather 
before we could build it up again," 



210 Oregon Literature 

"I'll tell you what," said (luy, "there are two large 
barrels in the house. They would tioat one of us." 

' ' Yes, but one of them is full of old rye whiskey whicli 
cost four dollars a gallon and there is nothing in which 
to empty it," said Mart. 

"Let us pour it out," becged Guy. "We can put 
some of it in the water bucket and camp kettle and then 
pour it back when we are done." 

' ' I am afraid your father would not approve of that, ' ' 
answered Mart. 

"If he were here, he would. I know him too well to 
think he would ever let a horse die like that. None of 
us like whiskey. What does he want with it?" 

"It belongs to the man at Payette Station, and it is 
here because he has not yet come for it," answered 
Mart. "He will be after it wiien the snow melts a little 
and he will be displeased if we threw it out." 

Guy had again taken the glass, and was looking in- 
tently at the battle. He could plainly see the old horse 
was becoming worried and that he would soon starve 
to death. Blood showed on several parts of his body 
where the wolves had torn him with their sharp teeth. 
All at once a large one darted from the pack and. missing 
the horse's throat, fasttmed on his shoulder. Buckskin 
seized the wolf in his teeth, and tearing him loose, 
pressed him to the ground and struck him again and 
again furious blows with his fore feet until he lay ap- 
parently lifeless. • The rest attempted to close in, but 
the courageous horse showed such a determined and 
hostile front that they paused, afraid to invoke the fate 
of their comrade. 

Guy could endure it no longer. He turned to his 
uncle, his face streaming with tears, "I can't stand it 
any longer, Uncle. You and father promised me fifty 
dollars a month to help run the ferry. You owe me one 
hundred and fifty dollars. I will pay for that whiskey 
and you can take it out of my wages, and I want that 
barrel. I am going over the river to help old Buck." 

Mart was a noble-hearted, impulsive man, whose own 
heart had been swelling up with pity for the fate of the 
brave old horse. He threw both arms around the boy 



George A. Waggoner 211 

vnd blurted out, "That's just like you, Guy. God bless 
you. I am with you. We will save old Buckskin if it 
takes all the ferry is worth to do it. Now run and rip 
oflt' those planks fastened to the stanchions of the ferry 
boat while I i>et the bai*rels.'' 

In a very few moments the two large bai-rels were 
rolled down on the ice. They were placed about eight 
feet apart and lashed securely to the broad planks Guy 
brought from the boat. Then they had a sled and boat 
combined. When it was ready Mart said, "Now bring 
both ritles, our pistols and plenty of amunition. The 
wolves may attack us. They are very hungry or they 
would not be so bold." 

Mart had managed to save most of the whiskey in 
emptying the barrel. The cooking vessels were all filled, 
including the frying pan and cott'ee pot; and lastly, but 
by no means least, a pair of Mart's huge boois did good 
service in holding a couple of gallons of the fiery liquid. 

When all was ready they pushed the raft ahead of 
them on the ice until they came to the channel. To 
prevent accidents the guns were tied to the raft, then 
the novel boat was launched. The barrels were taughtly 
corked and proved quite buoyant enough to bear the 
two men. With clap boards for paddles, they soon 
crossed the current and landed safely on the ice. 

The wolves paid but little attention to them. They 
had renewed the fight with greater vigor than ever and 
were pressing old Buckskin closer and closer. One would 
dart from the pack, snapping at him as he passed. They 
appeared to be trying to get him to run, but were care- 
ful about getting in reach of his heels or teeth. More 
than once he was seen to seize a wolf and hurl him 
several yards. In his battles he had developed a kind 
of science of fighting. He kept near the bank, never 
allowing his foes to get behind him. When he found it 
necessary to charge, to drive them back, he did it with 
such vigor as to drive everything before him. Then, 
before they could rally, he regained his place and 
turned a solid front to them. Never did a horse show 
more courage or sagacity, and seldom, if ever, w^as one 
more deeply sympathized with than he was. 



212 Oregon Literature 

The two rescuers crept up to the bank, to within 
twenty yards of the combatants. "Take good aim and 
get ready before you fire," said Mart, as he leveled his 
rifle. Both guns rang out with one report and two of 
old Buck's foes fell. Then with pistols the battle was 
opened in earnest. Crack ! crack ! crack ! The wolves 
scampered off, leaving four of theii- inimbei' dead on the 
field, while several that ran away were badly wounded, 
as was shown by the bloody trail they left behind in 
the snow. 

Buckskin was nearly as much surprised at his de- 
liverance as were the wolves at their defeat. He was 
cruelly gaslKnl in many places, neai'ly starved and utt(n'ly 
worn out with fatigue and tlie loss of blood. But he had 
made a most gallant fight and was looked upon as (juite 
a hero by his rescuers. 

They led him out on the ice, but he, who had fought 
so bravely, was reluctant to try a l)ath in the cold waters 
of the swift river. He was coaxed and pushed into the 
channel, led across behind the raft and pulled out on 
the ice on the other shore. The next morning his two 
friends helped him to break a trail through the snow 
to the hills, where the wind had blown the grass bare, 
and left him with plenty of food at his feet. Soon after 
the snow disappeared and spring invited the wolves back 
to their native haunts in the mountains. When the 
flowers came again. Buckskin was fat and sleek, coming 
every few days to the ferry to see his friends and to 
look for company of his own kind. He was quite a 
handsome pony but through his shining, glossy coat 
could ])e seen the scars of his many wounds, mute wit- 
nesses of the terrible conflict through which he had 
passed. 



D. Solis Cohen 

D. Solis Cohen, of Portland, Oreoon, has lectured ex- 
tensively on the Talmud, American Citizenship, and 
other subjects of common interest. He sounded the first 
appeal from an American platform for the Lewis and 
Clarke Exposition. Mr. Cohen is an active promoter of 
public schools and general intelligence, and regards with 
favor any opportunity to hold up before the rising gen- 
eration the noblest deeds of the makers of this country. 

THE DEATH OF MUZA. 

"Armed at all points, he issued from the city at night, 
and was never heard of more." . . . 

'AYoe to Granada, woe!" For long, long years had 
these words of mingled grief and warning sounded in 
Moorish ears. From the first rash act of the impetuous 
Muley Abul Hassan, which had given the Spaniards the 
long-desired pretext for a war of extermination, until 
this black, sad night— at intervals— after a disastrous 
engagement, an unsuccessful sortie, or the death of a 
noted warrior, that cry had been heard through the city 
at the midnight hour. But none had discovered who 
uttered that awful and solemn sound. 

Never, however, had the words fallen with such dis- 
heartening effect as upon this night. And yet— what 
further sorrow could be in store for Granada? True; 
^Moorish troops still filled the Alhambra, but their scimi- 
ters hung not by their sides; the warlike fire gleamed 
not from beneath their bushy eyebrows; no songs, no 
jests, no tales of valor passed between them. Silent and 
moody they listened to the steady tread of the sentinels 
and their stated cries; but the tread was the tread of 
their enemies, and the cries were in the tongue they 
hated. On the morrow, the city, already in the actual 
possession of a Spanish detachment, would be formally 



214 Oregon Literature 

surrendered. On the morrow, in gorgeous pageantry 
their conquerors would enter and place their standard 
upon the Alhanibra's towers. Would— would that Allah 
might prolong the night! But, no! the sands of time 
would run as usual ; the remorseless moments bury them- 
selves, regularly and swiftly, in the deep, wide grave of 
time past. The morning's sun would rise and shine. 
Ay, as years before he had shone, gilding the banners 
floating proudly and defiantly, glorying in his rays, so 
would he shine when those banners should kiss the dust, 
and the ensign of their enemies woo the breezes. Yes! 
the morning's sun would come— and then — 

In the magnificent audience room of Boabdil, glowing 
in its bright colors, its gold and its jewels, as though 
no danger threatened the weak-hearted monarch, a band 
of warriors surrounded their king. Silence reigned, and 
despair marked every countenance. Boabdil rested his 
face within his hands, hiding his countenance from these 
men who had struggled for their country and his throne, 
and to whom now all hope was lost. Suddenly, loud 
and shrill, as though within that very chamber, came the 
dread cry— ""Woe to Granada, woe!" 

Boabdil trembled; a groan escaped his lips: "Un- 
fortunate, unfortunate that I am," he muttered while 
the warriors looked around in fear. All save one : Muza 
—he whose voice had ever been for war; he who had 
counseled death, self-immolation rather than surrender; 
he who had inspired them to heroic courage time and 
again, but who at last had spoken to ears deadened by 
despondency. His fierce, black eyes seemed now to flash 
with living fire. He sprang to his feet, and turning to 
the king, he spoke in those deep, thundering tones which 
had so often thrilled his co-patriots. 

"Nay, call thyself not 'unfortunate.' The man, the 
warrior, rises above misfortune; but 'tis water courses 
through thy veins. Useless are my efforts, vain my 
words, for vainly do I look for one responsive throb from 
thee. I rise not now to talk ! Our country is lost to us ; 
her hours are numbered, but there is still tor us one last 
resource; let us seize it— death! The blood-soaked 
ground invokes us; the souls of our bi-ethren call upon 



D. Solis Cohen 215 

us: let us be brave as they! Ay, weep, Boabdil, weep; 
Allah should have made thee a woman. O kino'— kin^' 
in name, but slave in heart— show one spark of sovereign 
spirit; join with us. we who are here, let us give our 
city to the tiames and perish with her. Come brothers, 
and this night we will rest in Paradise." He paused 
and looked around him. The cheeks of the warriors 
glowed, but their lips were silent ; the king moved not, 
did not raise his head. Muza smiled in scorn. 

" 'Tis well, " he continued, " 'tis well. Welcome your 
oppressors; welcome the Spaniards to your walls! 
dastards! though you may bow your heads before this 
hated horde, and slip your shoulders 'neath the yoke, 
Muza at least will never yield. Gaze on me, cowards, 
for you will never see me more." Turning rapidly upon 
his heel, INIuza left the apartmenn while at the same 
moment the blood-chilling cry again echoed through the 
hall- 

"Woe to Granada, woe!" 

With a quick step Muza descended the broad stone 
stairway leading to the courtyard; looking neither to 
the riglit nor to the left, to answer the greeting of friend 
or salute of conu-ade. He gave the privilege pass to the 
Spanish officer in charge of the gates, and a moment la+er 
was upon the dark, unlighted street. The peaceful sky 
seemed to mock his wild spirit, as he proceeded with a 
firm tread towards his residence. A footstep behind 
him, following quickly upon his own, caused him to 
pause and turn. His brave heart beat with double force 
at the form which greeted his eyes; a form plainly 
visible, supernaturally visible, in the unlighted street. 
A tall, straight figure, towering above his own ; flashing 
eyes, bright in the darkness as the stars above; a long 
white beard, sweeping below the waist of a loose black 
gown without sash or girdle, and white locks blowing 
uncovered in the wind. 

"Son," spoke a voice, full and deep, vet low as a 
loving mother's tone to her cherished offspring, "son, 
thy soul prompts thee to a noble deed; 1 will accom- 
pany Ihy steps." Without a word Muza resumed his 
walk; hV seemed to feel a new impulse, stronger even 



i21f) Oiuf/oii Lil('r<ihir( 

than his own strong will. He reached his home and 
pansed that the stranger might precede him through the 
entrance; but the old man moved back. "Nay, son." 
he said, "thy task is best performed alone. I await 
thee here." 

Without a question in his mind as to how the stranger 
should divine his thoughts, Muza passed through the 
portals and entered a small side chamber. He lighted 
a lamp of scented oil which hung low from the ceiling. 
Upon a couch reposed a 'female form ; young, and in the 
graceful negligence of sleep, with head resting upon a 
rounded arm, and long black hair in beautiful disorder 
concealing the night robe, half exposed from 'neath the 
broidered covering. A lovely, calm expression rested 
upon the almost childish face of the sleeper, and her 
breath came sweet and regular through her half opened 
lips, marking the beatings of her heart. Her closed eyes 
displayed long, silken lashes, and her cheeks, somewhat 
Hushed by gentle dream, heightened the v'^harm of her 
clear complexion. Muza approached the couch and 
gazed upon the sleeping form. He bent and pressed his 
lips to hers, then passed his hands caressingly upon her 
forehead, and moved aside the rich wealth of hair. As 
he did so, the faint echo of a far-otf sound whispered 
through the i-oom — 

"Woe to Granada, woe!" 

Muza started; with a quick motion he drew from 
beneath his gaudy scarf a dagger, a keen steel blade, and 
raised it above the unconscious form, as though about 
to bury it in the soft breast beneath him. But he ])aused 
even in the act of striking, seemingly at a new thought, 
and again kissing the red lips, he laid the weapon upon 
a stand by the couch, and with soft touch awakened the 
sleeper. She turned her eyes upon him, smiled and half 
raised herself with a glad welcoming motion; she was 
about to speak, but he stopped her, and in a voice of 
low sweetness, which treml^led (H'eii in its firmness, he 
said : 

"Ayma, my soul! a moment since I stood above thee, 
with yon dagger in my hand, its point directed toward 
thv heart — thv heart which l)ea1s for me alone. But, 



I). Soll.^ ('ohm 217 

Ayiiia, thou ni-t a wai-rior's child. I eould not strike 
thee in thy sleep. I could not spare myself the anguish 
of thy eyes, thy look, thy voice; I could not rob thee 
of the living', eternal ^lory of being thyself the one to 
yield thy life to Allah. List to me, child, and put thy 
arms about my neck, thus bravely, and thy cheek to 
mine; now prove thy heart, for oh, my soul, holy to 
me has been the thought that I possessed a son's heart 
and spirit in a daughter's frame. List to me, dear one— 
with tomorrow's sun the Spaniards enter our city; with 
the dawn of day, all that it contains, its wealth, its youth 
—you listen, Ayma— its beauty, will be in the power of 
those who glory in our disgrace. Our base king and his 
pale-souled councilors flatter themselves with the vain 
hope that they and theirs will be spared dishonor. Not 
so, my child;' my st)ul, believe me; the comins' day 
Avill find thee a polluted slave, or among the blessed in 
Paradise. Choose, Ayma, soul of my soul, which shall 
it be?" 

Ayma fixed her large black eyes upon her father's 
face. There was no fear in their clear depths, ^v high 
and lofty look, such as blazed from his own, proved that 
he had spoken truly in regard to his daughter's spirit. 
There was' no trembling in the hand with which she 
pointed to the glittering steel, no tremor in the voice wiih 
which she said, "Give me the wea])on.'' 
Muza pressed her to his heart. 

"Farewell, brave child, I go to strike one more blow, 
single-handed, for my country ; we meet tomorrow morn 
at Allah's throne." 

With one last convulsive emln-ace, he released himself 
from his daughter's arms, and handing her the dagger, 
passed swiftly from the apar-tment and joincMl the 
stranger without. 

" 'Tis well, my son," whispered the old man, "noble 
sires give birth "to noble sculs. Follow me, and I^ will 
lead thee to thy destination and thy glorious end." 



Without the walls of (Iranada, in the city which the 
powerful Ferdinand had built after the flames had 



218 OrffjO)! Literature 

destroyed his encampment — Santa Fe, the cross-shaped 
city of the faith, here all had been feasting- and merri- 
ment. The labor of ten long years had at last terminated 
snecessfnlly, and in their prond congratulations the 
Spanish host forgot the dread losses they had suffered, 
the thousands and thousands of brave men who hail 
perished, and the devastation which had marked the 
birth and death of days. Tomorrow, in all the glare 
and glitter, pomp and power of parade, they would enter 
victorious into the city which had so long defied their 
might. Not a soldier among that mighty host, but 
dreamed that night of gold and jewels, of soft, bright 
eyes and waving hair. As the night wore on, the sounds 
of revelry ceased, and in obedience to commands the 
soldiers sought repose. The camp city was left to the 
sentinels, who trod their beats with unsteady gait and 
half-closed eyes, for generous measures of Castilian wines 
had warmed their veins and soothed their senses. 

Slowly creeping; now along the ground, now in the 
dark shadows, two figures approached the royal head- 
(juarters; gliding noiselessly along, and passing sentry 
after sentry without notice, till they reached within a 
few yards of the arched entrance with its crossed banner. 
There they paused, and the old man spoke. 

"My son, here we part." 

"Father," said Muza, "thou hast brought me safely 
through all these dangers, who art thou? Speak, father, 
thy name?" 

"Nay, my son; rest satisfied, thy work will prosper; 
take my blessing." 

Muza prostrated himself before the old man, and when 
he rose again, the old man had vanished. 

"God is great!" murmured Muza, and lying flat upon 
the ground, with his keen eye upon the guard pacing 
before the entrance, he slowly dragged himself forward. 
Close, closer, and when the sentry turned he placed him- 
self with a quick spring between him and the entrance. 
Then, as the sentinel came back, he jumped up suddenly 
and faced him, and before the startled man could cry 
or think, he caught him firmly by the throat, bore him 
to the gi'ound, and compressing his windpipe with one 



D. Soils Cohen 219 

hand, drew with the other a dagger and stahbed him to 
the heart. Eveii while the man's limbs moved in his 
fearful, silent death struggle, Muza took his upper gar- 
ment from him. and with it clothed himself. Then rising 
cautiously, he slowly and regularly trod the beat which 
the dead' man had Avalked, glancing carefully upon the 
entrance each time he passed, and noting well the build- 
ing. For full half an hour he paced thus with slow and 
measured tread; then suddenly, with a loud and fearful 
cry, a piercing scream which echoed wildly in the still 
iiiuht, he shouted: 

"Treachery! Treachery! They come! The Moors! 
The Moors!!'" 

Yellino- thus fiercely, he dashed through the entrance 
into the building. His scimiter he held loosely in his 

baud. 

The soldier sleeps lightly. Easily is he aroused even 
from dreams of love and home. Prom all parts of the 
building Spanish officers came rushing, while outside all 
was in confusion. 

"The king!" cried Muza, "the king! Where is the 
kingf and tightening his hand upon the hilt of his 
scimiter, and keeping it close to his side, while in his 
otlier hand he displayed the lance he had taken from the 
sentinel, he darted through the long corridor. 

A door at the end was thrown open. A tall form 
appeared upon the threshold. With one spring, such as 
a -wounded tiger might make upon his foe, Muza leaped 
upon this form; he dropped his lance, and with one 
swoop of his scimetar he severed head from body. 

"Ha ha!" he laughed, "die, Spanish dog! die, dog of 
a Si^anish king, die in thine own stronghold by the hand 
of Muza. (Iranada, them art avenged!" 

He was seized by the Spaniards crowding around, but 
he laughed long and fiercely. 

"Do your worst, there lies your king." 

But suddenly his cheeks blanched ; his knees trembled ; 
what was it ? Had fear seized upon his soul? He looked 
straight before him; his eyes seemed starting from their 
socl<ets; for there approached a man before whom all 
bowed; a man who uazed sternly upon the prisoner. 



--0 ()r<(j<))i Lit vnii lire 

Fatal Mistake ! Fei'diiiand, king of Spain, stood be- 
fore him ! . . . 

In the morning, as the Spanish troops marshaUed for 
their triumphal procession, the soul of Mnza ascended 
amid the fire of the stake. From the moment when he 
became aware of his great errOr, until the moment the 
liames rose up about him, he uttered not a sound ; but as 
his soul left his body, th;it soul spoke; one word — 
' ' Ayma. ' ' 



Frederick Schwatka 

Frederick Sclivvatka, born in (Jalena, Illinois, Septem- 
ber 29, 1849. Came with his paivnts to Oregon in 185;J, 
settling at Astoria. Removed to Albany where they re- 
mained until 1859, when they went to Salem. Was edu- 
cated at Willamette University and Icai-ncd lU'inlei-'s 
trade. Received appointment to United States .Military 
Academy at West Point, graduating in 1871, and was 
appointed second lieutenant in Tbird Cavalry. Servetl 
on garrison and frontier duty until 1877. Studied law 
and medicine, was admittcMl to the bar in Nebraska in 
1875, and received his medical degree at Bellevue Hos- 
pital Medical College, New York, in 1876. Connnanded 
an expedition in search of Sir John Franklin's i)arty 
1878-1880. Afterward explored tli(^ course of the Yukon 
in Alaska, rejoining his ]-egiment in 1884. In August 
resigned his ctmnnission as tirst lieutenant in the army, 
and connnanded the New York Times Alaska exj)loring 
expedition in 1886. He was an honoraiy member of the 
greatest geographical societies of tbe world and had re- 
ceived medals from many of them. Dui'ing the latei- 
years of his life he made two tours of exploration through 
Mexico. Among his writings are "Along' xVlaska's Great 
River," 1885: "Ninnxid in the North," 1885; "The 
Children of the Cold," 1886. He died in Portland, 
Oregon, November 2, 1892, and was buried in Rural 
Cemetery, Salem, beside his pareiils. 




FRANCES FULLER VICTOR 



Frances Fuller Victor 

Frances Fuller Victor was born in Rome Township, 
New York, May 23, 1826, and came to Oregon in 1865. 
Her literary career may be summarized as follows: 
poems, 185l'; "Florence Fane Sketches," 1863-65; "Th.- 
River of the West," 1870; "All Over Oregon and Wash- 
ington," 1872; "Woman's War Against Whiskey." 
1874; "The New Penelope," 1877; "Bancroft History 
of Oregon," two volumes. 1886; "Bancroft History of 
Washington, Idaho and INIontana"; "Bancroft History 
of Nevada, Colorado and Wyoming;" "Bancroft History 
of California," Vols. 6 and 7; "History of Early In- 
dian Wars in Oregon," 1893; "Atlantis Arisen"; 
"Poems," 1900. Died at Portland. Oregon, November 
14, 1902. 

COL. JOSEPH L. MEEK. 

Joseph L. Meek was born in AVashington County, Vir- 
ginia. He was the son of a planter, and his mother was 
of a good Virginia familv — one of the Walker's — and 
aunt to the wife of President Polk. But unfor'unately 
for her son, this la("!y died enrly, and young Joseph was 
left very much to his own devices, on a plantation where 
there was nothing for him to do, and little to learn, 
except such out-door sports as boys delight in. These 
he enjoyed in the most unrestrained liberty, having for 
his companions only the children of his father's slaves, 
towards whom he stood, in the relation of master. 

Such circumstances would be inimical to habits of 
mental industry in any case ; and the lad found his 
temptations to a busy idleness so many and strong, that 
he refused even to avail himself of the little elementary 
teaching that he might have had on the plantation. His 
stepmother, for whom he seems to have felt a dislike, 
either did not, or could not influence him in the direction 



222 Oregon Literature 

of study; and it fell out that when he arrived at the 
age of sixteen years, he was a tall, merry, activ.e boy, who 
knew hardly as much of spelling and reading as is con- 
tained in the child's first primer. Why it was that his 
father negfetted him in so culpable a manner does not 
appear; but what is evident is, that young Meek was 
not happy at home, and that his not being so was the 
cause of his abandoning the plantation when between 
sixteen and seventeen years of age, and undertaking to 
enter upon a career for himself. This he did by going to 
Kentucky, where some relations of his father resided; 
and, on finding things not to his mind in the new place, 
finally pushing on to St. Louis, then a mere trading post 
on the i\Iissouri frontier, where he arrived in the fall 
of 1828. 

This \yas the decisive s!ep that colored all his after 
life. St. Louis was the rendezvous of fur traders, who 
yearly enlisted new men for service in trapping beaver 
in the Rocky Mountains. Young Meek offered himself, 
and though younger than the other recruits, was ac- 
cepted, on his assurance that he would not shrink from 
duly, even if that duty should be to fight Indians. The 
spring of 1829 accordingly found him in the employ of 
Mr. William Sublette, one of the most enterprising and 
successful of the fur traders, who annually led a com- 
pany of men to the mountains, and through them, from 
summer to winter rendezvous; leaving them the follow- 
ing spring 1o go to St. Louis for the necessary Indian 
goods and fresh recruits. 

Little did the boy of eighteen realize the fateful step 
he was taking ; that for eleven years he should roam the 
mountains and plains like an Indian, carrying his life 
in his hand at every step ; that he should marry an 
Indian woman ; and leave a family of half-Indian 
children in the valley of that far oft' Oregon, of which 
then he had hardly ever heard the name. But a man 
once entered into the service of the fur companies found 
it nearly impossible to abandon the service, unless he 
had shown himself cowardly and unfit— in which case 
he was permitted to return when the trading partner 
went to St. Louis for goods. A brave and active man 



Jessie Buoy 223 

\vas sure to be kept in the company's debt, or in some 
otlier way in its. power; so that no opportunity should 
be afforded of leaving the life he had entered upon how- 
ever thoughtlessly. Letters were even forbidden to be 
written or received ; lest hearing from home should pro- 
duce homesickness and disaffection. The service was so 
full of dangers, that it was esfimated fully one- fifth if 
not one-fourth of the trappers were killed by the Indians, 
or died by accident and exposure each year. 

Yet, with all these chances against him. Meek lived 
eleven years in the mountains, figliting Indians and wild 
beasts, with never in all that time a serious wound from 
Indian arrow or paw of grizzly bear; a fact that illus- 
trates better than any words, the address, quickness and 
courage of the man. Though often sportively alluding 
to his own subterfuges to escape from danger, it still 
remained evident that an awkward, slow or cowardly 
man could never have resorted to such means. An un- 
suually tine physique, a sunny temper and ready wit, 
made him a favorite with both comrades and employers, 
and gave him influence with such Indian tribes as the 
mountain-men held in friendlv relations. 



Jessie Buoy 

ON THE RIVER. 

Oh, gray dawn and white, white mist. 

And hills so mute and still; 
Oh, wild west wind, wherever you list 

To go at your own sweet will ; 
Oh, golden sky and sea-fowl flown. 

And cattle and meadow and home 
It takes you all — yes, every one — 

To make a day on the river. 



Harvey W. Scott 

Harvey W. Scott came to Oreo-on in his boyhood. He 
helped his father ch^ar the old donation claim in Wash- 
ington County; then undertaking his own education, he 
was the first regular graduate o£ Pacific University. 
Early in life he pursued a prodigious course of study; 
iind with a logical faculty somewhat remarkable his pen 
soon won prominence in communicating his opinions. 
Since 1865 he has been editor of the Oregonian. Under 
'lis management, that journal has gained the reputation 
of being one of the greatest dailies on the continent, 
ranking with the New York Sun and the Eveninfi Post. 
It was his pen that gave the Oregonian its character. 
However, as a rule, the tone and excellence of a publica- 
tion is in part attributable to the taste of the numerous 
readers who create a demand for a publication of that 
sort. As a critic in the journalistic art, Mr. Scott com- 
pares favorably with Dana and Bryant; and while he 
has not neglected his editorial duties and written books 
as have some noted editors, he has established a precedent 
m the journalistic field worthy of the study and emula- 
tion of young men and women who look forward to 
literary employment as a life vocation. 

THE BIBLE IN ENGLISH. 

{An cdiiorial ivriUcn for the Oregonian.) 
A plea is again presented for a new translation of the 
Bible into English, for the purpose, it is said, of speech. 
It is argued that the version so long in use, since it does 
not belong to the language of our time, is not suited to 
ordinary and common use for the present day, and to 
many is even scarcely intelligible. It does, indeed, 
abound with a peculiar phraseology and with singular 
words long since abandoned, and its style is maintained 




HARVEY W. SCOTT 



nurvry W. Scott 225 

no where else in our literature; but these are precisely 
the features that make it impressive, concen'rate atten- 
tion upon it, and ti'ive it the sacred character it possesses. 
Throujih this translation the Bible means more to readers 
of English than to those who use any other tongue. The 
general antique color of the diction perpetuates this 
translation as the literary representative of our sacred 
s{)eech. In the literature of no other language is there 
anything that corresponds to it. 

It is not too much to say that there is no possibility of 
supersedure of this version by another. It is a part, and 
no small part, of the intellectual, moral and religious 
culture of all English-speaking peoples. The forms of 
expression in which the text is rendered have long been 
household words unto millions, and the change of a word 
or a syllable would produce a .iar to many ears as harsh 
as dissonance in nnisic. As a work of literature, this 
version is a transcript of the religious and in ellectual 
energy that produced it. Its downright, sinewy and 
idiomatic English, coming to us from the best age of 
our literature, is strong, where a new version would be 
difiPuse and feeble. From the same type of mind tha* 
produced this version flowed those innumerable tributary 
streams that fed the mighty sea of Shakespeare. To 
substitute another version for this one would be to 
abandon one of the strongest clews to the entire living 
existence, moral, intellectual and religious, of all who 
inherit the English tongue. Of course, therefore, it can- 
not be supplanted. It makes the highest ideas, clothed 
in words of compass and power, part of the daily life 
and growth of multitudes. No substitution of another 
version for it. nor even any material change in this one 
would be possible; or, even were it possible, it would be 
a positive loss to literature and history, and would tend 
to impoverishment of the soil in which the moral and 
religious ideas of a great people have ^heir nourishment 
and growth. 

Here is the genius of the English tongue at its greatest 
and best, flinging its full strenarth unon a task which at 
the time lay close to the heart of the English people. The 
English Bible is the masterpiece of our prose, as Shakes- 



226 Oregon Lifcrafnre 

peare's work is of our poetry; it beats not only with 
the divine impulse of its original, but also with that im- 
mense vitality of religious life in the clays when to our 
ancestors religion and life were identical. In this version 
we have that tremendous reach of emotion, borne on a 
style majestic and clear, Which has been and will con- 
tinue to be one of the great forces in the movements of 
history. This English Bible is among the greatest of the 
agencies in spreading the English language throughout 
the world, and in extending the principles of liberty and 
of jurisprudence that go with it and find their expression 
through it. This view shows that missionary work 
carried on in the English tongue throughout the world 
has a field vastly wider than propagation of mere ecclesi- 
astical dogma. It is introductory to and part of a greatly 
wider field of effort and progress. Its potency lies in the 
fact that the religious feeling is the most powerful of 
the forces through which men are moved, and in all 
times has been the underlying force in the. expansion of 
civilization. This is not to say that it has not been 
abused, or has not run into errors, or at times even into 
crimes, some of them colossal.- Nevertheless, without the 
religious impulse the world never c ^uld get on. 

THE EVOLUTION OF OREGON. 
(Fyjm. an Address Before the Oregon Pioneer Socieiy.) 

The earliest explorers of Oregon, the missionaries of 
the somewhat later day included, were mostly from our 
Atlantic states ; but when the active migration began 
the states of the Upper Mississippi Valley supplied far 
the greater number. These persons were of the pioneer 
stock of Missouri, of Illinois and of other states of the 
region then known as the AVest. The story of Oregon 
had reawakened their old love of adventure; it offered 
a source of relief to their restlessness, and it held out to 
them the vague hopes always promised by the unknown. 
Situated where they were, coranumities were growing up 
around them ; they had lost the sovereignty of space and 
wanted to recover it; the;y liked not close settlements, 



Harrnj W. Scott 221 

still less cities, where man disputes with man for air, 
space, sunshine. Fixed residence was less agreeable than 
indefinite removal, the imagination loved to dwell on the 
illimitable, where no bounds are set to freedom of move- 
ment and action. He who is alone feels that he is imy^ort- 
ant; for he measures himself by his actual standard, 
and not by the method of the census taker, not by the 
indistinguishable numerical value which his single ex- 
istence represents in a populous city or nation. The 
imagination is fed by visions and illusions; and yet so 
deep a mystery is man, that these in fact have greater 
power over him than realities, and the realm of imagina- 
tion becomes man's truest world. 

These were the people who constituted the body of 
those now coming to Oregon. There had been an effort 
to establish missions among the Indians, but these people 
did not come for missionary purposes. Their were 
earnest endeavors on the part of a few far-seeing men 
to augment the force of Americans in the country, so as 
to create a counterpoise to British influence and secure 
the disputed territory to the United States-, but this 
was not the motive that impelled the main colunin of 
migration. Efforts for missionary work and reports of 
missionaries on the country had done much to create an 
interest in Oregon, as in the case of Rev. Jason Lee, whose 
lectures in Illinois in 1838 started the Peoria party in 
1839; agitation of the "Oregon Question" in Congress 
and throughout the country, based on the desire to plant 
a body of American citizens here whose presence would 
attest the sovereignty of the United States, had helped 
t(» make Oregon known ; and the Western pioneer hearing 
of Oregon as a wonderland, could not restrain his im- 
patience ; he had not yet been satiated with adventure, 
and he looked back on the conditions of pioneer life from 
which the states of the Upper Mississippi region were 
just emerging, as a golden age of freedom which might 
be renewed on the distant shores of the Pacific, and the 
fact that privation was to be met and danger was to be 
braved added zest to the undertaking. 

The story of the toilsome march of the wagon trains 
pver the plains will be received by future generations 



228 Or((j()n TAlcrniure 

almost as a legend on the border land of myth, rather 
than as a veritable history. It will be accepted, indeed, 
but scarcely understood. Even now to those who made 
the journey, the realities of it seem half fabulous. It no 
longer seems to have been a rational undertaking. The 
rapid transit of the present time appears almost to 
relegate the story to the land of fable. No longer can 
we understand the motives that urged our pioneers to- 
ward the indefinite horizon that seemed to verge on the 
unknown. Mystery was in the movement, mystery sur- 
rounded it. It was the last effort of that profound im- 
pulse which, from a time far preceding the dawn of 
history, has pushed the race to which we belong to dis- 
covery and occupation of western lands. 

Here now we are; the limit has been reached. The 
stream can flow no further onward, but must roll back 
on itself. Life must develop here, and in this develop- 
ment it must diversify itself, and take on new and char- 
acteristic forms. This, in fact, it is doing. Oregon, from 
the circumstances of its settlement, and its long isolation, 
and through development here of the materials slowly 
brought together, has a character almost peculiarly its 
own. In some respects that character is admirable; in 
others it is open to criticism. Our situation has made 
for us a little world in which strong traits of a character 
peculiarly our own have been developed ; it has also left 
us somewhat out of touch with the Avorld at large. We 
are somewhat too fixed and inflexible in our ways of 
thought and action, and do not adjust ourselves readily 
to the conditions that surround us in the world of men, 
and now are steadily pressing in on us from all sides. 

The life of a community is the aggregate life of the 
individuals, who are its units, and the general law that 
holds for the individual holds for the society. The 
human race can make progress only as the conduct of a 
man as an individual and of a man in society is brought 
into harmony with surrounding forces under the govern- 
ment of moral laAv. Of this progress experience becomes 
the test. The multiplying agencies of civilization, oper- 
ating in our own day with an activity continually cum- 
ulative and never before equalled, are turned, under 



Ilarvnj W. S^cvtl 220 

the pressure of moral forces, into most powerful instru- 
ments for instruction and benefit of mankind. It is 
probable that nothing else has contri])uted so nuich to the 
help of mankind in the mass, either in material or moral 
aspects, as rapid increase of human intercourse through- 
out the world. Action and reaction of peoples upon 
peoples, of nations upon nations, of races upon races, 
are continually evolving the activities and producing 
changes in the thought and character of all. This inter- 
course develops the moral forces as rapidly as the intel- 
lectual and material; it has brought all parts of the 
world into daily contact with each other, and each part 
feels the influence of all the rest. 

Common agents in this work are commerce in mer- 
chandise and commerce in ideas. Neither could make 
nuich progress without the other. Populations once were 
stagnant. Now they are slirred profoundly by all the 
powers of social agitation, by travel, by rapid movements 
of commerce by daily transmission of news of the im- 
portant events of the world to every part of the world. 
Motion is freedom and science and wealth and moral 
advancement. Isolated life is rapidly disappearing; 
speech and writing, the treasures of the world's liter- 
ature, diffused throughout the world, enlarge and expand 
the general mind, and show how much is contained 
within humanity of which men once never dreamed. In 
language itself there is a steady advance towards sim- 
plicity, compass, exactness and uniformity. As civiliza- 
tion makes progress and increases, the number of dialects 
diminishes, provincialisms are merged, the same tongue 
becomes common to a mighty people. 

Phases of life pass away, never to return. In the first 
settlement of a country the conditions of nature produce 
our customs, guide our industries, fix our ways of life. 
Later, modifications take place, fashioned on changing 
conditions. Oregon, long isolated, has now been caught 
up and is borne onward in the current of the world's 
thought and action. Under operation of forces that 
press upon us from contact with the world at large, and 
under the law of our own internal development, we are 
moving rapidly away from the old conditions. Pioneer 



230 



Oregon Literature 



life is now but a memory ; it will soon be but a legend or 
tradition. Modem society has no fixity. Nothing abides 
in present forms. See how complete has been the trans- 
formation of New England within twenty-five years. A 
similar process is now in rapid movement among our- 
selves in the Pacific Northwest. Once we had here a little 
world of our own. We shall have it no more. The 
horizon that once was bounded by our own board enlarges 
to the horizon of man. 




John Gill 

GANTORI MORTUO. 

Swift Voices of the Night, 
(hying' abroad through all the sleeping land: 
"Balder, the beautiful, is dead! The hand 
That woke the harp on Wild Acadia's shore 
To noblest strains, shall strike that harp no more! 

Shrouded, and still, and white ! " 

Speak to the rolling waves. 
Breaking in thunders on his native Coast ; 
Tell them the bard who loved their nnisic most 
Sleeps in the old house by the tranquil bay. 
Deaf to their fury, or their giant play 

In the green ocean caves. 

The building orioles sing 
In the long branches of his old elm trees ; 
The bluebird pours upon the vernal breeze 
His mellow notes, unconscious that he lies 
Reckless of song and warmly-bending skies, 

In the returning Spring. 

No more the bells of Lynn, 
Or billows mourning on Nantucket's shore. 
Or winds that thro' the wayside elm trees roar, 
Filling the night with voices sweet and strong. 
Shall rouse his spirit to immortal song. 

Or his soft numbers win. 

The River Charles flows by 
His loved old city, on its brinnuing tide 
Reflecting i^uburn's tower, and streaming wide 
Under the bridge ; the stately street resounds 
With shout and song from his old college grounds. 

Where youth can never die. 



'2'A'2 Ore (JO II Lii( ruliirc 

The old clock on the stah', 
That luai'ked the loiit>-, louii' thoughts of childhood's ]iage, 
His manhood, noble prime, and green old age 
White with kind frosts, speaks yet in soleiiui tone, 
Forever — never — as in years bygone; 

Years past, forever fair. 

Into the Silent Land 
His steps have entered, where his treasures were; 
Thei'e may the choii'ing angels minister 
Peace to his soid, time kindred of their own; 
His Psalm of Life is sung, his day gone down 

In sunset calm and grand. 

Never— Forever ! 
In curfewbell, in voice of summer streams. 
In wildbird songs, in music of our dreams. 
In all the noblest promptings of the heart 
His words of love and tire shall have theii- part, 

Echoing evermore 

Oh, Voices of the Night! 
Breathe low and sweet above that sacred mound 
Through woods in summer green; or mournful sound 
Through sighing pines, dark in Acadian snow, 
A requiem for the soul of Longfellow, 

Soared to its highest flight ! 




GEORGE H. WILLIAMS 



George H. Williams 

Hon. George H. Williams was born in Columbia 
County, New York, March 26, 1823; educated in the 
academy on Pompey Hill in Onondaga County; and 
admitted to practice law in 1844. He then moved to Fort 
Madison, Iowa; and in 1847, was elected Judge of the 
First Judicial District. In 1852 he was appointed Chief 
Justice of Oregon, by President Pierce. In 1864 he was 
elected United States Senator. Soon after his term in 
the Senate he was appointed one of the Joint High Com- 
missioners to settle by treaty with Great Britain the 
Alabama claims and other disputed questions between 
the two countries. He was the author of the act under 
which the states lately in rebellion were reconstructed— 
generally known as the ' ' Reconstruction Act. ' ' In 1871 
he accepted from President Grant the appointment of 
Attorney-General of the United States. Since retiring 
from that office Judge AVilliams has been steadily 
engaged in the practice of law, devoting his spare 
moments to literary pursuits. Ample entertainment and 
instruction can be found in the lines of Mr. AVilliaiiis's 
"Occasional Addresses," a neatly bound volume of two 
hundred pages. 

PARALLEL BETWEEN SHERMAN AND GRANT. 

We are familiar with the story of David and Jonathan ; 
but if their extraordinary friendship was more senti- 
mental, it was not more interesting than the relations 
of Grant with Sherman. These relations were indeed 
beautiful. They exalted both men in my estimation. 
Our country, and all countries, from time immemorial, 
have been cursed with the rivalries and jealousies of 
great men. Few people know how much these have to 
do with the turmoils, wars and bad government of the 
world. Grant and Sherman were the two great Generals 



234 Oregon Literature 

of the war. Circumstances conduced to make them rivals 
for distinction and the honors of their country. There 
was ample room and provocation enough for jealousy 
between them; but the common cause in which they 
drew their swords seems to have rounded their lives into 
an unbroken harmony. 

I have frequently conversed with each about the other. 
There were no complaints or fault-findings upon these 
occasions. Grant always spoke kindly of Sherman; 
Sherman enjoyed the praises of Grant. It is difficult 
LO compare the military capabilities of two men so dif- 
ferent in temperament. Sherman was quick, nervous 
and impulsive; Grant, thoughtful, deliberate and im- 
perturable. Marching through Georgie suited the dash 
of Sherman; the siege of Vicksburg, the deep resolve 
and unyielding tenacity of Grant. Both have written 
books. Sherman had more snap and sparkle in his style ; 
Grant, more terseness, strength and simplicity. Grant 
was a man of few words, and no speech-maker ; Sherman 
frequently spoke on public occasions in a fluent and 
pleasing manner. 

Twenty-five years ago the war for the Union ended. 
Death has been busy with men of that war; but time 
is erecting a monument to their memories, in states 
united, that will stand as long as our flag represents the 
freedom and union of the American people. 

Our country has folded to its green bosom and to their 
earthly rest, Grant, Sherman, Sheridan, Thomas, Han- 
cock, Logan, and many of their compatriots ; but their 
graves are pilgrim shrines to which future generations 
will come to commune with the historic dead, and con- 
secrate themselves to the service of their country. 

UPON THE VALUE OF GOOD THOUGHTS. 

A group of essays taken from an address to the gradu- 
ating class of the High School in Portland, Oregon, 
June 23, 1891. They are ink-drops from the husy 
pen of one who for more than a half century has heen 
constantly employed in giving counsel to people of all 
ranks and ages. 



George H. ^yilUanls 235 

Faith. 

"According to your faith, be it unto you," is a rev- 
elation and promise from Infinite Wisdom and Power. 
Faith is the Archimedean lever that moves the world. 
Faith convoyed Columbus to the discovery of a western 
hemisphere. Faith spans oceans with telegraphs and 
continents with railroads. Faith has founded empires 
and won great victories. Faith is the inspiration of 
every great invention and every great enterprise; and 
without faith the dead level of animal life would hardly 
be disturbed. Faith is defined to be the substance of 
things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen ; which 
is a summary way of describing life in the world of 
thought brightened by the promise of hope. Faith in 
God, faith in man, and faith in the good, the true and 
the beautiful, are elements of exalted and refined 
pleasures. 

Good Thoughts. 

True happiness consists in having your minds occupied 
with good, just and pure thoughts; and if your minds 
are filled with such thoughts your bodily surroundings 
are of no great consequence. This power of controlling 
the thoughts, especially under adverse circumstances, is 
not intuitive; nor is it easily acquired. Like other ac- 
complishments of the mind and body, it comes through 
cultivation and discipline. Our minds, untrained, have 
a tendency to produce evil thoughts, like the tendency 
of the untilled earth to produce wild grasses and weeds. 

Avarice, envy, jealousy, hatred, malice, discontent 
and fear, are names given to classify those different con- 
ditions of the mind from whi'ch proceed a great part of 
the unhappiness of the human family. 

To overcome and put an end to these mental condi- 
tions is like the fight of Hercules with the hydra ; 
but in this fight, as in that, perseverance will achieve 
success. One person is born in poverty, and bound by 
circumstances beyond his control to a life of obscurity 
and toil. Another is born in affluence, and inherits dis- 
tinction and ease. Very often the former is discontented 



236 Orcfjon Lifcnifiirf 

and depressed with his lot, and his life is poisoned with 
envy of the latter ; when, as a matter of fact, there may 
not be, and in a majority of cases is not, any good ground 
for this unhappiness. It is misery made out of nothing 
but perverted thoughts. 

When a poor man, in good health, has all that he 
needs to eat, to drink and to wear, he has aliout all a rich 
man can get out of his wealth, so far as bodily enjoy- 
ments are concerned. The air is as fresh and pure,. the 
sunshine as bright and warm, to the poor as to the rich. 
All the glories of the heavens and all the beauties of the 
earth are as free to t[he poor as to the rich. God is no 
respecter of persons, and all His wondrous works are 
for the equal good and pleasure of all His children. 
Moreover, it does not follow that because a man is rich 
he is happy; for happiness does not depend so much 
upon external circumstances as upon mental conditions, 
and it may happen that the mind of the man with 
millions of money is distracted with care and trouble, 
while the boy who blacks his boots is happy in the 
thought of better days to come. 

Were it possible to look into the thouglits of those 
around us, we should find that thei'e is not half as much 
difference among people, so far as their happiness is 
concerned, as there seems to be. Alexander wept for 
other worlds to conquer, but Diogones was contented in 
his tub. Envious thoughts are extremely foolish, for 
they neither help the envious nor hurt the envied. They 
only sting the brain that brings them into being. Our 
great need is to know how to change injurious and evil 
thoughts into those that give us pleasure and junice. 

Will Power. 

We must be diligent in the exercise of 1he will povvei-. 
Self-examination will show that, as a rule, our wills are 
allowed to be dormant, while passion, prejudice, or some 
exciting circumstances evolve and control our thoughts. 
Disuse makes our wills, like our limbs, weak and in- 
efficient when we desire to use them. You believe that 
some one has wronged you, in consequence of which you 
are exicihed with angry and revengeful thoughts. To 



Oeoiyc TT. ^y;Ula,^>s 237 

set rid of these thon^'lits as soon as possible is advisable, 
because they not only destroy mental serenity, but 
inaugurate disorders of the body. To do this it is 
necessary to substitute pleasant and soothing thoughts 
for those that irritate and annoy. Bring un from the 
storehouse of memory some scene to which your afPections 
cling; think of some event that has given you pleasure 
or profit, or give yourself up to some brischt dr'^am of 
the future. Drive away the clouds and ^nter into thp 
sunlight. Poe's "Raven" is the picture of a mind filled 
with Thouffhts of sorrow, gloom and death, while Wood- 
worth's "Old Oaken Bucket" is the picture of a mind 
full of refreshing and grateful memories. To substitute 
the thought that inspired the song of Woodworth for 
those that, inspired the wail of Foe, is to substitute the oil 
of .ioy for the ashes of mourning. 

To change or divert the thoughts from that which is 
evil to that which is good, is comparatively easy; but 
the difficulty is to maintain t%e change. Bad thoudits 
are always "striving for the mastery, and eternal visril- 
ance is necessary to prevent their success. To try this 
experiment involves a mental struggle. There will be 
failures and disappointments; but everv time the un- 
conquered will brings in good thoughts it gains strength 
for the next conflict; and so by persistent efforts, the 
mind is released from distraction, and made thp citadel 
of contentment and peace. T want to say this with 
emphasis : Watch the comins; and going of your thoughts, 
and whenever you perceive that an evil, unkind or 
unhappy thought has entered into vour mind, displace 
it at once with somethinc- that is good, kind or agreeable; 
and if you can make this the fixerl habi^ of your mmd, 
you have gained what is worth more to vour happiness 
"than all " the wealth of Ormus or of Ind." 
Individuat. Differences. 

I have had more or less to do with the quarrels of 
men for nearly fifty years, and the result of my ob- 
servation and experience is. that a great part of these 
disagreements are unnecessary, and would not occur if 
people did not act without reflection. I have no right 



238 Oregon Litcrainrc 

when I differ with another, to get angry, and act from 
passion; but it is my duty to consider that I may be 
blinded by self-interest, or that I may have been mis- 
informed, or may have misunderstood what has been 
said or done, and I ought to know the views and thoughts 
of the other man before I decide upon any definite action. 
Our Lord g^ve us good advice when he said, ' ' Judge not 
according to the appearance, but judge righteous judg- 
ment." 

You will be better satisfied with yourselves, and add 
to your happiness, if you take a charitable view of the 
motives and actions of other people : though you may 
know that others have gone wrong, it is noble and gen- 
erous to think of them that they "have but stumbled 
in the path you have in weakness trod." What a world 
of trouble and sorrow would be prevented if people would 
think more kindly and justly of each other. 

The Delusions op Life. 

Everybody is praising truth ; but who would take 
away from children their conceptions of Santa Claus 
'or those little works of fiction which they read with so 
much avidity and pleasure, of which "Little Red Riding 
Hood" is an example? Who would suppress the 
maternal instincts of the little girl by robbing her of 
her doll, or dispel the manly conceits of the little boy 
in riding his wooden horse? Visions of love, wealth 
and power are tio the morning of life what summer 
breezes and the singing of birds are to the rising day, 
and, though largely delusive, are delightful while they 
last, and shed their fading brightness over the sober 
scenes of later life. I have lived in handsome houses of 
brick and stone, and held high positions of honor and 
trust; but the most beautiful houses in which I ever 
lived, and the highest honors I ever enjoyed, are those 
which an unfledged ambition constructed out of my 
boyhood fancies. 

Cheerfulness. 

Whatever your circumstances in life may be, try to 
take a cheerful, and not a gloomy view of your prospects 



George II . WiUiiuus 239 

and surroimdinsrs. To cultivate a cheerful disposition or 
state of mind, is not only to cultivate yonr own happi- 
ness, but to make your presence like mingled flowers 
and sunshine to your family and friends. I think i' 
safe to say that more than one-half of the troubles of 
life have no existence outside of a misguided or morbid 
state of mind. Take, as an illustration, Shakesr)eare's 
great impersonation in Othello. Here was a solrlier, 
honored by men and loved by woman for his great deeds, 
who was driven by false and poisoned thoufiht to murder 
a true and loving wife, and then to commit tli(^ kindre^l 
crime of suicide. All this was the outcome of thinking 
evil instead of good of one whose virtue and purity were 
ignored to give place to a base suspicion. There is no 
greater folly than to brood despondently over some mis- 
take or misfortune that has passed beyond recall. Try 
always to encourage yourself with the reflection that 
apparent evils are frequently blessing's in disguise. 
Looking backward over the ills of life is noor business ; 
but to look forward and upward with faith and hope is 
to draw from heaven some of the choicest blessings. 

Good Thoughts Are ITpijfting. 

Rich people can diversify their lives with recreations 
and amusements of various kinds; but those who labor 
for their daily bread are largely denendent upon their 
daily thoughts for refreshment and rest: though the 
body is bound to earth, the thought may be in heaven. 
Where can the mother, whose heart is bleeding from the 
loss of her child, find such comfort as in the thous-ht of 
being reunited to her loved one in another and a better 
world? Our Lord has provided for the poor and 
afflicted, by showing them that, if thev will make their 
thoughts like His thouarhts, they will have a wealth of 
peace which the world cannot give or take away. Some 
people profess to believe that these comforting thoughts 
are nothing but the vagaries of weak and sensitive minds ; 
but, be this as it may, they have lightened the burdens 
of many weary souls; and it is safe to assume that they 
will be found to be eternal realities, Avhen flesh and 
blood have mouldered into dust. 



240 Oregon LUrnilnre 

Influence oe Good Tiioitghts. 

Our tlion^lits affect others, favora])ly or urifavorahly, 
as they affect ourselves, fiood thouf!;hts exert a o;ood 
influence, and bad thoup;hts a had influence, n])oii thrso 
around us. Some philosophei's contend that thou<fht is 
as much a substance as magnetism, electricity or heat; 
and the analoj^ics of this arsiument are jiood, for all alike 
are intangible, invisible and ca]>able of changing; and 
controlling material things. Actual experiments have 
demonsti'ated that thought can b(^ ti'ansferred from one 
mind to another without the use of any visibh^ or 
audible signs; and it is thei'efore a reasoim])lc conclusion 
that all thoughts, to some extent, are common to all 
minds. Go into a company of peo])le whose thoudits 
are pure, bright and joyotis, and tluMi go into another 
company whose thoughts ai-e low, hateful and gloomy; 
and, though nothing be said, the change will be percepti- 
ble in the changed condition of ycmr thoughts. On" 
little spark may kindle a great iii-e; and one new and 
vigorous thought may set in motion a gi'eat tliouyht- 
wave. I have noticed, in the political an'l i-eligions 
world, that where the thought in one locality <li'ift<'il in 
a certain direction, the same drift was obsei'ved in other 
and remote localities. Language may in pai-t aeeoujit 
for this; but results indicate that currents of though '^ 
run through the social fabric, like currents of electricity 
through the unconscious earth. AYhen the spiritual is 
more fully developed, and the intellectual becomes more 
apprehensive, it may be that the telegraph and telephone 
will fall into disuse, and mind answer to mind, and 
thought to thought, throuarh a medium common to all. 
Our thinking faculties conjoin us to the Supreme Intelli- 
gence of the Universe. They stamp the dust of the earth 
with the image of the Deity. They can lift us to the pin- 
nacles of human life. They can do more: they can lift 
us up to heaven, or they can bear us down the endless 
declivities of eternal darkness. Gird un the loins of 
your minds. Prepare yourselves for the smiles and 
frowns of fortune. Go out, with faith in God, into the 
field of duty, always rememberin<2' that the secret of a 
happy life is to think good tJioughts. 




EDWARD DICKINSON. BAKER 



E^dward Dickinson Baker 

Edward Dickinson Baker was horn in London. Eng- 
land, February 24, 1811. Five years later his father's 
family settled in Philadelphia, where Edward at an early 
age wds apprenticed to a weaver. In 1825 the family 
moved to Indiana, and the followinji" year to Illinois. 
Young Baker drove a dray in St. Louis for a season, 
but returned to Illinois, where he was admitted to the 
bar. In 1831 he seriously thought of entering the 
ministry in the Reformed or Christian Church. He ob- 
tained a Major's commission in the Black Hawk War; 
was twice elected to the lower branch of the State Legis- 
lature, then one term to the upper branch ; was elected 
to Congress in 1844 ; then, commissioned Colonel in the 
Mexican War; and returned to Congress in 1849. In 
1852 he located in San Francisco, but in 1860 moved to 
Oregon, where he was chosen United States Senator. His 
greatness as a soldier, statesman, orator and patriot was 
of that character which made him inevitable in any state 
or national disturbance ; so that while Oregon of all tht' 
states honored him the most, the Nation in the onset of 
a threatening calamity laid first claim upon his highest 
energies. Attired in the full uniform of a Colonel he 
appeared before his fellow Senators in a stirring defense 
of the Union, August 2, 1861 ; and four days later he 
was confirmed Brigadier General. He fell in the battle 
of Ball's Bluff, October 21, 1861. In recogni<^ion of his 
services, a commission as Ma.ior General of Volunteers 
was afterwards issued in his name. 

As an orator Colonel Baker seeing clearly beheld 
things as they were ; hence treated each subject in a 
style of its own. Therefore he was enabled to give to 
us a typical plea in the ' ' Defense of Cora, ' ' the repartee 
in his "Reply to Benjamin," the ready fire of Patrick 
Henry in the "Baker ^Mass-Meeting Address," fraternal 
sympathy in the Broderick oration, the ornate in the 



242 Oregon Literature 

oration on the Atlantic Cable, and poetry and music in 
the "Ode to a AVave." On all occasions the flight of the 
"Old Gray Eagle" was lofty, attracting the eyes up- 
ward and uplifting the minds of men above sordid 
thoughts and groveling themes. 

THE ATLANTIC GABLE ADDRESS. 

Amid the general joy that thrills throughout the civil- 
ized world, we are here to bear our part. The great enter- 
prise of the age has been accomplished. Thought has 
bridged the Atlantic, and cleaves its unfettered path 
across the sea, winged by the lightning and guarded by 
the billow. Though remote from the shores that first 
witnessed the deed, we feel the impulse and swell the 
paean; for, as in the frame of man, the nervous sensi- 
bility is greatest at the extremity of the body, so we, 
distant dwellers on the Pacific Coast, feel yet more 
keenly than the communi^ries at the centers of civiliza- 
tion, the greatness of the present success, and the 
splendor of the advancing future. 

The transmission of intelligence by electric forces is 
perhaps the most striking of all the manifesta'^ions of 
human power in compelling the elements to the service 
of man. The history of the discovery is a monument to 
the sagacity, the practical observation, the inductive 
power of the men whose names are now immortal. The 
application to the uses of mankind is scarcely less 
wonderful, and the late extension across a vast ocean 
ranks its projectors andl accomplishers with the bene- 
factors of their race. "We repeat here today the names 
of Franklin, and Morse, and Field. We echo the senti- 
ments of generous pride, most felt in the commonwealth 
of Massachusetts, at the associated glory of her sons. 
But we know that this renown will spread wherever 
their deeds shall bless their kind ; that, like their works, 
it will extend beyond ocean and deserts, and remain to 
latest generations. 

The March of Science. 

The history of the Atlantic Telegraph is fortunately 



Edivdid Dickiiiso)! Baher 243 

familiar to most of this auditory. For more than a 
hundred years it has been known that the velocity of 
electricity was nearly instantaneous. It was found that 
the electricity of the clouds was identical with that pro- 
duced by electric excitation; next followed the means 
for its creation, and the mechanism of transmission. Its 
concentration was found in the corrosion of metals in 
acids, and the use of the voltaic pile ; its transmission 
was completed by ]\Iorse in 1843, and it was reserved to 
Field to guide it across the Atlantic. Here, as in all 
other scientific results, you find the wonder-working 
power of observation and induction ; and nowhere in 
the history of man is the power of Art — action directed 
by Science— A-^jow^erfgre systematized— signally and beau- 
tifully obvious. I leave to the gifted friend who will 
follow me, in his peculiar department, the appropriate 
description of the wonders of the deep seaway : of the 
silent shores beneath ; of sunless caverns and submarine 
plains. It is for others to describe the solitudes of the 
nether deep. Yet who is there whose imagination does 
not kindle at the idea that every thought which springs 
along the wires vibrates in those palaces of the ocean 
where the light fails to penetrate and the billows never 
roll? 

From those dark, unfathomed caves the pearl that 
heaves upon the breast of beauty is dragged to the glare 
of day. There the unburied dead lie waiting for the 
resurrection morning, while above them the winds wail 
their perpetual requiem; there the lost treasures of 
India and Peru are forever hid; there the wrecks of 
the Armada and Trafalgar are forever whelmed. 

AVhat flags and what trophies are floating free 
In the shadowy depths of the silent sea 1 

But amid these scattered relics of the buried past, 
over shell-formed shores and wave-worn crags, the 
gleaming thought darts its w^ay. Amid the monsters of 
the deep, amid the sporting myriads and countless armies 
of the sea, the single link that unites two worlds conveys 
the mandate of a king or the message of a lover. Of 
old, the Greek loved to believe that Neptune ruled the 



'ZA4: Oregon Lifprature 

ocean and stretched his trident over the remotest siirsre. 
The fiction has become reality; but man is the monarch 
of the wave, and his trident is a single wire ! 

The scene in which we each bear a part today is one 
peculiar, it is true, to the event which we celebrate; but 
it is also very remarkable in many and varied aspects. 

Joy Visits the Pacific Coast. 

Never before has there been on the Pacific Coast such 
an expression of popular deli<2,ht. We celebrate the 
birthday of our Nation with signal rejoicing; but vast 
numbers who are here today can find no place in its 
processions, and perhaps wonder at its enthusiasm ; we 
celebrate great victories which give new names to our 
history and new stars to our banner — these are but 
national triumphs; but today the joy is universal; the 
procession represents the world — all creeds, all races, 
all languages are here; every vocation of civilized life 
mingles in the shout and Avelcomes the deep. The 
minister of religion sees the Bow of Promise reflected 
under the sea, which speaks of universal peace; the 
statesman perceives another lengthening avenue for the 
march of free principles; the magistrate here can see 
new guards to the rights of society and property, and 
wide field for the sway of international law ; the poet 
kindles at the dream of a great republic of letters tending 
toward a universal language; and the seer of science 
finds a pledge that individual enterprise may yet embody 
his discoveries in beneficent and world-wide action. 

The mechanic walks with a freer step and more con- 
scious port, for it is his skill which has overcome the 
raging sea and stormy shore ; and labor — toil-stained 
and sun-browned labor— claims the triumph as his own 
in twofold right. First, because without patient, endur- 
ing toil, there could be neither discovery, invention, 
application or extension; and again, because whatever 
spreads the blessings of peace and knowledge comes 
home to his hearth and heart. 

Surrounded then, as I am, by the representatives of 
all civilized nations, let me express some of the thoughts 
that are struggling for utterance upon your lips as you 



E(hc<tnl Diclliison Bahfr 245 

contemplate the great event of the century. Our first 
conviction is that the resources of the human mind and 
the energies of the human will are illimitable ; from the 
time when the new philosophy, of which Francis Bacon 
was the great exponent, became firmly written in a few 
minds, the course of human progress has been unfettered 
— each established fact, each new discovery, each com- 
plete induction is a new weapon from the armory of 
truth; the march cannot retrogade; the human mind 
will never go back; the question as to the return of 
barbarism is forever at rest. If England were to sink 
beneath the ocean, she hath planted the germ of her 
thought in many a fair land beside, and the tree will 
shadow the whole earth. If the whole population of 
America were to die in a day, a new migration would 
repeople it; not with living forms alone, but with living 
thought, bright streams from the fountains of all nations. 
Science, thou thought-clad leader of the company 
of pure and great souls, that toil for their race and love 
their kinds ! measurer of the depths of earth and the 
recesses of heaven ! apostle of civilization, handmaid 
of religion, teacher of human equality and human right, 
perpetual witness for the Divine Wisdom— be ever, as 
now, the gi-eat minister of peace ! Let thy starry brow 
and benign front still gleam in the van of progress, 
brighter than the sword of the conqueror, and welcome 
as the light of heaven ! 

Commercial Progress. 

The commercial benefits to accrue to all nations from 
instantaneous communication are too apparent to permit 
much remark ; the convenience of the merchant, the cor- 
respondence of demand and supply, the quick return of 
values, the more immediate apprehension of the condition 
of the world, are among the direct results most obvious 
to all men ; but these are at last mere agencies for a 
superior good, and are but heralds of the great ameliora- 
tions to follow in the stately march. 

The great enemy of commerce, and indeed of the 
human race, is war. Sometimes ennobling to individuals 
and nations, it is more frequently the offspring of a 



246 Orego)i Literature 

narrow nationality, and inveterate prejudice. If it 
enlists in its service some of the noblest qualities of the 
human heart, it too often perverts them to the service 
of a despot. 

From the earliest ages a chain of mountains, or a line 
of a river, made men strangers, if not enemies. What- 
ever, therefore, opens connnunication and creates inter- 
change of ideas, counteracts the sanguinary tendencies of 
mankind, and does its part to "beat the sword into the 
plowshare. ' ' 

We hail, as we trust, in the event we commemorate, a 
happier era in the history of the world, and read in the 
omens attendant on its completion an augury of per- 
petual peace. 

The spectacle which marked the moment when the 
cable was first dropped in the deep sea, was one of 
absorbing interest. Two stately ships of different and 
once hostile nations, bore the precious freight. Meeting in 
mid-ocean they exchanged the courtesies of their gallant 
profession— each bore the flag of St. George, each carried 
the flowing Stripes and blazing Stars— on each deck 
that martial band bowed reverently in prayer to the 
Great Ruler of the Tempest: exact in order, perfect in 
discipline, they waited the auspicious momen*^ to seek the 
distant shore. Well were those noble vessels named — 
the one, Niagara, with a force resistless as our own 
cataract; the other, Againcmnon, "the king of men," 
as constant in pui*pose, as resolute in trial, as the great 
leader of the Trojan war. Right well, gallant crews, 
have you fulfilled your trust! Favoring were the gales 
and smooth the seas that bore you to the land ; and oh ! 
if the wish and prayer of the good and wise of all the 
earth may avail, your high and peaceful mission shall 
remain forever perfect, and those triumphant standards 
so long shadowing the earth with their glory shall wave 
in united folds as long as the Homeric story shall be 
remembered among men — or the thunders of Niagara 
reverberate above its arch of spray. 

It is impossible, fellow citizens, within such limi's as 
the nature of this assemblage indicates, to portray the 
various modes in which the whole human race are to be 



Edward Dicliiisoii Jiakcr 247 

impelled en the march ( f i)i'()gi'ess !)y the telegraphic 
union of the two nations; but I cannot forget where I 
stand, nor the audience I address. The Atlantic tele- 
graph is but one link in a line of thought which is to 
bind the world; the next link is to unite the Atlantic 
and Pacific. Who doubts that this union is near at hand 'I 
Have we no otlier Fields? Shall the skill which sounded 
the Atlantic not scale the Sierra Nevada 1 Is the rolling 
plain more dangerous than the rolling deep"? Shall 
science repose upon its laurels, or achievements faint by 
the Atlantic shore "? Let us do our part; let our energy 
awaken! Let us be the men we were when we planted 
an empire. We are in the highway of commerce; let 
us widen the track— one effort more, and science will 
span the world. While I speak, there comes to us, borne 
on every blast from the East and from the W^est, high 
tidings of civilization, toleration, and freedom. In Eng- 
land the Jews are restored to all the privileges of citizens, 
and the last step in the path of religious toleration is 
taken. The Emperor of Russia has decreed the emanci- 
pation of his serfs, and the first movement for civil 
liberty is begun. China opens her ports, and commerce 
and Christianity will penetrate the East. Japan sends 
her Embassador to America, and America will return 
the blessings of civilization to Japan. human heart 
and human hope! never before in all your history did 
ye so rise to the inspiration of a prophet in the majesty 
of your prediction! 

A Great Achievement. 

Fellow citizens, we have a just and generous pride in 
the great achievement we here commemorate. We rejoice 
in the manly energy, the indomitable will, that pushed 
it forward to success; we admire the skillful adaptation 
and application of the forces of nature to the uses of 
mankind; we reverence the great thinkers whose ob- 
servation swept through the universe of facts and 
events, and whose patient wisdom traced and evolved the 
general law. Yet, more than this, we turn with wonder 
and delight, to behold on every hand the results of 
scientific method everywhere visible and everywhere in- 



248 Oregon Litfrature 

creasing; but amid that wonder and delight we turn to 
a still greater wonder — the hmnan mivd itself! Who 
shall now stay its progress? What shall impede its 
career? No longer trammeled by theories nor oppressed 
by the despotism of authority— grasping, at the very 
vestibule, the key to knowledge, its advance, though 
gradual, is but the more snre. It is engaged in a per- 
petual warfare, but its empire is ]KM'petually enlai'giiig. 
No fact is forgotten, no truth is lost, no induction falls 
to the ground ; it is as industrious as the sun ; it is as 
restless as the sea; it is as universal as the race itself; 
it is boundless in its ambition, and irrepressible in its 
hope. And yet, in the very midst of the great works 
that mark its progress, while we behold on every hand 
the barriers of darkness and ignorance overthrown, and 
perceive the circle of knowledge continually widening 
we must forever remember that man, in all his pride of 
scientific research, and all his power of elemental con- 
quest, can but follow at an infinite distance the methods 
of the Great Designer of the Universe. His research is 
but the attempt to learn what nature has done or may 
do; his plans are but an imperfect copy of a half-seen 
original. He strives, and sometimes with success, to 
penetrate into the workship of nature ; but whether he 
use the sunbeam, or steam, or electricity — whether he 
discover a continent or a star — whether he decompose 
ligM or water— whether he fathom the depths of the 
ocean or the depths of the human heart — in each and 
all he is but an imitation of the Great Architect and 
Creator of all things. We have accomplished a great 
work ; w,e have diminished space to a point ; we have 
traversed one-twelfth of the circumference of our globe 
with a chain of thought pulsating with intelligence, and 
almost spiritualizing matter. 

The Bow of Promise. 

But, even while we assemble to mark the deed and re- 
joice at its completion, the Almighty, as if to impress 
us with a becoming sense of our weakness as compared 
with his power, has set a new signal of his reign in 
heaven ! If tonight, fellow citizens, you will look oat 



Ediranl Dickinson lidker 249 

from the glare of j^onr illuminated city into the north- 
western heavens, you will perceive, low down on the 
edge of the horizon, a bright stranger, pursuing its path 
across the sky. Amid the starry hosts that keep their 
watch, it shines attended by a brighter pomp and fol- 
lowed l)y a broader train. No living man has gazed upon 
its splendors before; no watchful votary of science has 
traced its course for nearly ten generations. It is more 
than three hundred years since its approach was visible 
from our planet. When last it came, it startled an 
emperor on his throne, and while the superstition of the 
age taught him to perceive in its presence a herald and 
a doom, his pride saw in its flaming course and fiery 
train the announcement that his own light was about 
to be extinguished. In common with the lowest of his 
subjects, he read omens of destruction in the baleful 
heavens, and prepared himself for a fate which alike 
awaits the mightiest and the meanest. Thanks to the 
present condition of scientific knowledge, we read the 
heavens with a far clearer perception. W,e see in the 
predicted return of the rushing, blazing comet through 
the sky, the march of a heavenly messenger along his 
appointed way and around his predestined orbit. For 
three hundred years he has traveled amid the regions of 
infinite space. "Lone wandering, but not lost," he has 
left behind him shining suns, blazing stars, and gleam- 
ing constellations, now nearer to the eternal throne, and 
again on the confines of the universe. He returns, with 
visage radiant and benign ; he returns, with unimpeded 
march and unobstructed way; he returns, the majestic, 
swift electric telegraph of the Almighty, bearing upon 
his flaming front the tidings that throughout the universe 
there is still peace and order— that, amid the immeasur- 
able dominions of the Great King, his rule is still perfect 
—that suns and stars and systems tread their endless 
circle and obey the Eternal Law. 

American Greatness. 

' When Pericles, the greatest of Athenian s'atesmen, 
stood in the suburbs of the Kerameikos to deliver the 
funeral oration of the soldiers who had fallen in the 



250 Oregon Literature 

expedition to Samos, he seized the occasion to describe, 
with great but pardonable pride, the grandeur of Athens. 
It was the first year of tlie Peloponnesian War, and he 
spoke amid the trophies of the Persian conquest and the 
creations of the (ireek genius. In that immortal oration 
he depicted in glowing colors the true sources of national 
greatness, and enumerated the titles by which Atliens 
claimed to be the first city of the world. He spoke of 
the constitutional guarantees, of democratic principles, 
of tlie supremacy of the law, of the freedom of the social 
march. He spoke of the elegance of private life— of the 
bounteousness of comforts and luxuries — of a system of 
education— of their encouragement to strangers— of their 
cultivated tastes— of their love of the beautiful— of their 
rapid interchange of ideas; but above all, he dwelt upon 
the courage of her citizens, animated by reflections that 
her greatness was achieved "by men of daring, full of 
a sense of honorable shame in all their actions." 

Fellow citizens, in most of these resnects we may adopt 
the description ; but if in taste, in manners, if in temples 
and statues, if in love and appreciation of art, we fall 
below the genius of Athens, in how many respects is it 
our fortune to be superior ! We have a revealed religion ; 
we have a perfect system of morality ; we have a litera- 
ture, based, it is true, on their models, lint extending 
into realms of which they never dreamed ; we have a 
vast and fertile territory within oui* own dominion, and 
science brings the whole world within our reach ; we 
have founded an empire in a wilderness, and pouretl 
fabulous treasures into the lap of connnerce. 

But, amid all these wonders, it is obvious that we 
stand upon the threshold of new discovei-ies, and at the 
entrance to a more imperial dominion. The history of 
the last three hundred years has been a history of suc- 
cessive advances, each more wonderful than the last. 

There is no reason to believe that the procession will 
be stayed, or the music of its march be hushed; on the 
contrary, the world is; radiant with hope, and all the 
signs in earth and heaven are full of promise to the race. 
Happy ai'e we to whom it is given to share and spread 
these blessings; happier yet if we shall transmit the 



Edward Dickinson Baker 251 

great trust committed to our care undimmed and un- 
broken to succeeding generations. 

A Prophecy. 

I have spoken of three hundred years past — dare I 
imagine three hundred years to come? It is a period 
very far beyond the life of the individual man ; it is a 
span in the history of a nation, throughout the changing 
generations of mental life. The men grow old and die, 
the community remains, the nation survives. As we 
transmit our institutions, so we shall transmit our blood 
and our names to future ages and populations. What 
multitudes shall throng these shores, what cities shall 
gem the borders of the sea ! Here all people and all 
tongues shall meet. Here shall be a more perfect civiliz- 
ation, a more thorough intellectual development, a firmer 
faith, a more reverent worship. 

Perhaps, as we look back to the struggle of an earlier 
age, and mark the steps of our ancestors in the career 
we have traced, so some thoughtful man of letters in ages 
yet to come, may bring to light the history of this shore 
or of this day. I am sure, fellow citizens, that whoever 
shall hereafter read it, will perceive that our pride and 
joy are dimmed by no stain of selfishness. Our pride is 
for humanity ; our joy is for the world ; and amid all 
the wonders of past achievement and all the splendors 
of present success, we turn with swelling hearts to gaze 
into the boundless future, with the earnest conviction 
that it will develop a universal brotherhood of man. 

FREEDOM. 

(Extract front American Theater Speech.) 

In the presence o:^ God — I say it reverently— freedom 
is the rule, and slavery the exception. It is a marked, 
guarded, perfected exception. There it stands ! If pub- 
lic opinion must not touch its dusky cheek too roughly, 
be it so ; but we will go no further than the terms of 
the compact. We are a city set on a hill. Our light 
cannot be hid. As for me, I dare not, I will not be false 



252 Orfcjon Liffrature 

to freedom ! Where in youth my feet were planted, 
there my manhood and my age shall march. I will walk 
beneath her banner. I will glory in her strength. I 
have seen her, in history, struck down on a hundred 
chosen fields of battle. I have seen her friends fly from 
her; I have seen her foes gather around her; I have 
seen them bind her to the stake; I have seen them give 
her ashes to the winds, regathering them that they miglit 
scatter them yet more widely. But when they turned 
to exult, I have seen her again meet them face to face, 
clad in complete steel, and brandishing in her strong 
right hand a flaming sword red with insufl:'erable light ! 
And I take courage. The Genius of America will at last 
lead her sous to freedom. 

TO A WAVE. 

(The first appearance of this poem was in the Philadel- 
phia Press, November, J 861.) 

Dost thou seek a star with thy swelling crest 
wave, that lea vest thy mother's breast? 
Dost thou leap from the prisoned depths below, 
In scorn of their calm and constant flow"? 
Or art thou seeki)ig some distant land 
To die in murmurs upon the strandl 

Kast thou tales to tell of the pearl-lit deep. 
Where the wave-whelmed mariners rock in sleep ? 
Canst thou speak of navies that sunk in pride 
Ere the roll of their thunder in echo died? 
What trophies, M'hat banners are floating I'l'ee 
In the shadowy depths of that silent sea? 

It were vain to ask, as thou rollest afar, 
Of banner, or mariner, ship or star; 
It were vain to seek in thy stormy face 
Some tale of the sorrowful past to trace. 
Thou art swelling high, thou art flashing free- 
How vain are the questions we ask of thee ! 





^ 




:j 


■jr 
















D- 


o 


P 


n 




Edward Dickinson Hakcr 258 

I, too, am a wave on a stormy sea; 

I, too. am a wanderer driven like thee; 

I, too, am seeking a distant land 

To he lost and forgot ere T i-each the strand. 

For the land I seek is a waveless shore. 

And thev who once reach it shall wander no more. 



TEIE END. 



INDEX 



Page 

Ackermau, J. H 107 

After Twenty Years 109 

A Grave in the Wilderness.. 160 

A Granger's Love Song 175 

Agricultural College 137 

A May Day iu Oregon 138 

An Evening on the Plains 158 

Angels Are Waiting for Me.. 121 

An Old Violin 161 

Applegate, Jesse 158 

At Dead of Night 98 

Atkinson, Rev. G. H 196 

Ascent of Mount Hood 169 

Baker, E. D 241 

Balch, F. H li*7 

Banks. Louis Albert 113 

Beautiful Willamette 64 

Bell, J. R. N 178 

Bloch, Rabbi 164 

Brown, Valentine 172 

Buchanan, John 128 

Buckskin's Fight with the 

Wolves 209 

Buoy, Jesse 223 

Burnett, John 129 

Burnett, Peter H 108 

By the Wayside 140 

Campbell, Prince L 161 

Campbell. Thomas F 192 

Cantori Mortuo 231 

Chadwick, S. F 138 

Cheerfulness 238 

Chief Multnomah in CounciL . 199 

Clarke, James G 79 

Clarke, Samuel A 139 

Climatic Influence Upon Lit- 
erature 12 

Cohen, D. Soils 213 

College Influences 15 

Columbus 42 

Common Schools 136 

Condon, Thomas 151 

Cooke, Belle W 115 

Curry, George L 150 

Damon and Pythias 167 

Davenport, Homer 183 

Davenport. T. W 183 

Deady, Matthew P 135 

DeMoss, Henry S 163 

Descent of the Avalanche — 176 

Dye, Mrs. Eva Emery 83 

Eliot, T. L 118 

Encamped 91 

Helen 172 

Hermann, Binger 159 

Grande Ronde Valley 49 

Hamilton, Mrs. S. Watson 154 

Hawthorne, B. J 157 

Evans, Elwood 162 

Faith 235 

Fearing, Blanche 156 

"49" .. 35 



Pag8 

Four-Leaf Clover 52 

Freedom 251 

Gill, John 231 

Good Thoughts 235 

Good Thoughts, Influence of . . 239 
Good Thoughts Are Uplifting 239 

Good Thoughts, Value of 234 

Higginson, Mrs. Ella 48 

Duniway, Abigail Scott 109 

Hill, W. Lair 182 

Himes. George H 173 

Hines, H. K 169 

Hofer, E 177 

How to Domesticate and 

Tame Birds 1(» 

I Know Not 116 

Immortality 178 

Individual Differences 237 

Irvine. B. F 133 

Is it Worth While? 26 

Joaquin Miller, Autobiography 24 

Joaquin Miller at Home 31 

Icaqu n Miller — Notes and An- 
ecdote's 3S 

Jo Lane and the Indians 84 

Kelsay, Col. John 103 

Kincaid, Harrison R 166 

Kinney, Narclssa White 176 

Language 192 

Let Him Sleep 156 

Lord, William P 136 

Lord, William R 104 

Markham, Edwin 45 

McArthur, Harriet K 161 

Marsh, Sidney H 126 

McElroy, Eulogy 124 

McComas, E. S 155 

Meek. Col. Joseph 221 

Memory 98 

Mid-Summ<«r Bird Song 177 

Miller, Joaquin 24 

Life 1'39 

Miller, Lischen M 143 

Miller. Minnie Myrtle 91 

Minto, John 175 

Morgan. Clara Blake 97 

Nash, Wallis 99 

Nesmith's Eulogy on Sumner 180 

Nesmith, J. W 180 

Newspapers and Magazines, 

Influence of 16 

On the River 223 

Onward l*'*' 

No Man Hath Right 97 

Normal Schools 136 

Only a Feather 66 

Oregon I.,iterature. Merit of.. 18 

Oregon Teachers Monthly 17 

Pacific Monthly 17 

Parallel Between Sherman 

and Grant 233 

Patterson, A. W 188 



Index 



Page 

Pioneer Life, Influence of — 5 
Plea for Religious Instruction 126 

Poetess of the Coquelle 91 

Popular Music, List of 10 

Progress and Literature IS 

Pulpiteers • • • • U 

Remembered by What tone 

Has Done 120 

Rhododendron Bells 53 

Roses and Lilies 1^^ 

Sacred J5 

Saylor, Fred H H 

Scenery, Influence of o 

Sell vvatka, Frederick 22' i 

Scott, Harvey W 224 

Seattle -.•••Vi--- ■'"^^ 

Senator Nesmith and His 

Tutor I'^l 

Simpson, Sam..L *>! 

Snowdrift 71 

Snow Drop Memories 141 

Song, Influence of S 

State University 137 

Sunrise on the Willamette 53 

Sweet Oregon 163 

T(>mperance US 

The Albany Oration 129 

The American Settler 135 

The Atlantic Cable Address.. 242 

The Bible 12 

The Bible in English 224 

The Birds Of Oregon and 

Washington 104 

The Bridge of the Gods 199 

The Camp Meeting 10 

The Chautauqua I'i 

The Crowning of the Slain 67 

The Death of Muza 213 

The Delusions of Life 238 

The Development Theory 151 

The Evolution of Oregon 226 

The Eyes that Cannot Weep. 54 
The Feast of Apple Bloom... 72 

Yates, .J. F 167 

The Fortunate Isles 43 

The Four-Year-Old 134 



Page 

The Haunted Light 143 

The Home Builders 1S2 

The Isle of the Lepers 57 

The Jewish Milestone 164 

The Lamp in the West 54 

The Man with the Hoe 46 

Th(> Mast Ashore 133 

The Mothers of Men 44 

The Mount of the Holy Cross W) 

The Mystic River 70 

The ISTative Son Magazine 17 

The NvmDhs of the Cascades 74 

The Old Emigrant Road 97 

The Old-Fashioned Preacher. 11 

The Old P'oneers 155 

The Oregon Republic 162 

The Oregon Skylark 90 

The Passing of Tennyson 41 

The Pioneers of 1848 196 

The Power of Literature 107 

The River of Rest 40 

The Western Meadow Lark... 105 

The Willarnette 128 

Thornton, J. Quinn 160 

Thoughts in Storm and Soli- 
tude Ill 

To a Wave 252 

To a Young Writer 29 

To .Juanita 40 

Tonight 77 

Trouble i'''> 

Two Historic Printing Presses 173 

T-vr, Years in Oregon 99 

TTltime 28 

[Tniversal Education 157 

Value of Friendship 128 

Victor, Frances Fuller '>'>y 

Waggoner, George A 209 

War 166 

When the Birds Go North 

Again 55 

William Brown of Oregon 36 

Williams, George H 233 

Will Power 236 

Woodward, Henry H 153 



•lEC. t5 IW^ 



